


Pulled Under

by Nagaem_C



Series: Dark Ripples [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Ripples AU, F/M, Lifelong Guardian, Magical Realism, POV Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-05-25 21:50:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 100,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6211429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nagaem_C/pseuds/Nagaem_C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade hasn't got much left: his marriage has ended, his job's on shaky ground, and the man he's spent most of his life saving through the strange power of the ripples is dead and gone. But as it turns out, things aren't all what they seem; the game is just begun...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mind the Gap

**Author's Note:**

> This story begins roughly 2 weeks after the last scene in Saving Graces (which is just after they've returned from Dartmoor).
> 
> I'm shooting for once a week publication, like the previous stories in this series, but I can't guarantee that I won't get tripped up somewhere along the way. :) I treasure your comments like priceless gems, please let me know what you think! <3 M.

  
**1\. Mind the Gap**  


.

 

It's three o'clock in the morning.

The computer screen casts a cold greyish pallor over a cluttered, windowless spare room. In this meagre light the tall piles of boxes and assorted junk behind and beside the small desk seem to loom close, their jagged shadows making the small space more claustrophobic than usual.

If Greg Lestrade were inclined to pay much attention to his own comfort, he probably wouldn't be sitting here right now.

His desk chair is old and creaky, a relic from the first flat he ever took in London, nearly thirty years ago; its leather is worn thin, and its padding has almost completely given up the ghost. The crick in his neck and strain on his eyes have merged into a dull headache that's beginning to feel like a bass drum thumping at the back of his head. Besides all that, at age forty-seven he's well aware of the drawbacks to staying up late; long gone are the days of the easy rebound.

 _Take your rest when you can find it,_ most of his colleagues would surely agree. Any DI in Homicide and Serious Crime learns to expect an erratic and demanding schedule; no matter what hours have already been put in, there's always the possibility of a case taking sudden precedence over supper and bed. Greg may hold his position at the unspoken top of the division's food chain, by right of highest closure rate, but that privilege doesn't make things any easier on him; it merely means his team is more likely to be called for anything that looks strange or complicated.

So Greg knows quite well where he should be, right now, and it isn't hunched over his keyboard in the dark, squinting at grainy scans of old photographs.

But he can't _sleep_.

Sherlock would almost certainly scoff to learn that Greg has been spending his sleepless nights this way; he might even be scornful of the fact that Greg is sleepless at all. As far as Sherlock is concerned, there's no need for anyone but him to worry about the possibility of a coming threat. Two weeks ago, they'd _all_ been rattled after John's blog had been hacked, but Sherlock had been emphatic.

"There's no sense in getting worked up over nothing," he'd snapped, at Baker Street the morning after the disquieting trespass. "This was merely a play for attention; whatever plans he has in mind, they're nowhere near fruition, or else he wouldn't feel the need to remind us of his existence in such petty fashion! Your apprehension, _your fear_ is his sole objective; surely you _see_ that?"

He'd looked only at John as he said it, staring him down as if Greg hadn't been sitting right there. And the way John had stared back...Greg had been tempted to wave his arms and yodel, to test whether he was actually visible.

Sherlock's assurances may be enough to calm his flatmate, but however logical they are, they can't help Greg to sleep.

This isn't his usual, formless worry—not his Sherlock-versus-the-world concern that covers every possible danger from toxic chemical reactions to runaway lorries to vengeful, reckless mafiosos—he feels _that_ as naturally as breathing, in all the moments he _is_ breathing, a low hum of continual awareness that periodically spikes to raise hairs on his neck at odd moments. No, this is an immediate and intrusive dread, jerking him awake night after night with the memory of a whistled tune.

So he's up late again, searching obscure Internet archives, even though he already knows there can't be much to be gained from scrutinising the Carl Powers case. Sherlock had studied it a year ago, during the week of the bombings, and again in the uncertain lull following its conclusion—and _he_ had been involved in the case personally, at the age of twelve, his direct memories being an advantage Greg can't hope to match. Anything worth knowing about Powers is surely already tucked away in that genius brain, along with anything that could possibly be deduced about the boy's killer: Greg knows his own work is pointless repetition, at best.

Tonight, though, Greg's managed to gain access to roll upon roll of a Brighton news photographer's unused shots, scanned in bulk and dumped online by some enterprising conservator prior to the newspaper office's relocation a few years back. Most of the forgotten images here are useless, really, not to mention amateur: poor composition, erratic focus. But there's one mark of inexperience for which Greg is grateful, though the newspaper office likely hadn't been. Their rookie photographer appears to have been easily excited at travelling to cover crowded events, and quite enamoured of his rapid-fire shutter. Six entire rolls of film appear to be devoted to the 1989 national swim championship, at least three of which appear at a glance to have been shot prior to the incident.

 _Still not likely to find anything useful here,_ he reminds himself, clicking over to a new photo. _But it's something to do, and I've got to do something..._

He can't help feeling a personal obligation to act. He _knows_ that in the scheme of things, as far as Sherlock or anyone else sees, he's a minor player at most. He can't do much to help, beyond what little assistance he can occasionally provide in his official capacity at Scotland Yard. He isn't smart enough to see the connections that his consultant puts together with lightning speed. He isn't important... _except that he is_.

It's a secret he holds incredibly close to his chest, and with good reason. Exactly one person in the world knows the truth, and not even all of it; Nadia had immediately decided he was mental, and taken the confession he'd made in trust as licence to return to her on-again off-again lover. The divorce has been final for only a few weeks, now, and it's still a raw reminder of his misplaced faith.

At least he can tell himself he's learned his lesson.

Another photograph; another crowd of students and parents from all over; Greg sighs and wonders how many more images he'll have to study before the anxious voice at the back of his mind quiets enough to let him return to his bed. Though the swimming centre is brightly lit and painted differently, these shots are clearly set in the same mezzanine galleries from which a gang of snipers had aimed down on Sherlock and John, last year. The place is difficult to forget. In the process of forcing his tired mind to focus on the task at hand, immersing himself in the past to avoid those unpleasant memories, it hasn't even occurred to Greg just how badly he wants _not_ to find the object of his search—until his eye catches unexpectedly on an unsmiling face.

The boy is scrawny and short. His black hair appears gelled into what might be spikes, were they not too long to point upwards. He's wearing a ratty-looking sweatshirt, but the stiff collar of a dress shirt is visible beneath it, buttoned tight. It doesn't appear to be attracting undue attention from the other spectators in the picture; still, it's an odd combination. It's just enough to draw Greg to look closer.

He already knew Jim Moriarty had been responsible for the death of young Powers. According to Sherlock, it was the only logical explanation for the shoes being part of last year's puzzle—the Great Game, as John had titled it in his popular blog. No-one but the killer would have held on to such a dubious trophy for twenty-one years, or understood its significance.

But in the back of his mind, even as he'd accepted Sherlock's conclusion, Greg had still been reluctant to truly believe it. A cold-blooded murder, premeditated and cruel, solely orchestrated by a child of ten or eleven? It had seemed unlikely, almost preposterous.

He swallows and rubs fitfully at the back of his neck as he clicks ahead. It's another rapid-fire sequence: the next shot is practically indistinguishable, as is the next, the spectators in the stands just beginning to turn heads in a frozen wave, watching some action behind the photographer. By the fourth frame, the boy has begun to turn as well. In the seventh, his dark eyes sweep towards the front; in the ninth, they seem to lock directly on the camera.

The look is one of pure malevolence, of gleeful hatred. It seems to burn through the screen, across the distance of years, to pin Greg in place, exposed and fearful against all logic.

No mere _child_ , this.

Greg suddenly understands why he hasn't been sleeping.

 

.

 

Detective Inspector Frank Drake is an all-around champion of a man. He's handsome, athletic, smart and confident, friendly with everyone and just flamboyant enough that no-one ever seems to mind his occasionally shallow nature. As an investigator he's admittedly short on intuition at times, but he makes up for it with stellar leadership and sheer determination. There are still some around the Yard who refer to the final four years of DI Richard Parsons' career as "the golden days" without a trace of irony; Greg still feels honoured to have been part of that select team alongside Frank. He's further honoured that they've remained such close friends ever since, despite his own prickly personality.

Frank's social calendar is perpetually full, what with his having married an equally charismatic graphic designer, but tonight they've invited Greg out for dinner, just the three of them. It's ostensibly to celebrate Drew's recent success at work, but it isn't long before the friendly meal begins to feel more like an intervention of sorts.

"You worry me lately, you know," Frank says, when they're about halfway through their steaks.

Greg swallows and looks up, quirking one eyebrow high. "Oh, yeah?"

"Drew's worried, too, aren't you? Tell him, love."

Frank's husband grimaces slightly as the nudged elbow jars the sip he's taking from his wine glass, but he doesn't hesitate to answer. "You're stewing, Greg. It's plain as day, you're still letting it eat you up inside; you don't look _well_."

"She's gone for good, this time," Frank continues without missing a beat; "it's for the best, I think we can all agree on that. But you need to make your peace with it!"

 _For the best?_ For a moment, Greg feels a strong urge to put up an argument; his friends aren't wrong, exactly, but their understanding is flawed. He knows the real reason Nadia gave up on him—and it had nothing to do with whether or not she'd still been entangled with her lover. She'd merely realised that all of the dissatisfaction that had drawn her to infidelity had been caused by the effects of her husband's particular insanity. With Greg's unbelievable confession had come the immediate certainty that none of those points would improve. It was only fitting, really.

All of this flits through his mind in the space of a few seconds, but it's heavily coloured with surprise...because he hasn't been dwelling on _Nadia_ at all, as far as he knows. Not for days.

He hadn't even _realised_ it.

"I know it," he says, nodding his acceptance of their concern. "I haven't been sleeping well. Just...haven't figured out what to do with myself, I guess."

Drew sets his glass down and strokes his close-cropped beard thoughtfully. "Well," he asks, "how about putting yourself out there? Getting out on a few dates, you know, fish in the sea and all that?"

"I dunno, Drew. I don't do all that well meeting new people."

"For Christ's sake," Frank says with a put-upon sigh, "I knew I should have tried harder to pull you out of your damn shell years ago. This is ridiculous! There's got to be some way to get you out of this funk, before you waste away to a withered husk of a DI!"

"Excuse me?"

"Have you _seen_ yourself, lately? Bloody awful. You definitely need to get yourself a love life, or at the very least a restorative shag."

"If I look so bad, I'm not likely to get one, though, am I?" retorts Greg, scowling across the table at Frank, who merely returns a smirk. Greg suspects that if he had Frank's glossy black hair and healthy Mediterranean glow, _he'd_ likely consider it an easy fix, too.

"We could set you up," Drew says. "I know a few ladies who would really go for your whole lone wolf thing..."

"Oh my God," Greg groans. Suddenly he's thinking of Molly, and her endless parade of abysmal blind dates. He shuts away the image immediately.

Frank senses his building desperation and relents, holding up his hands in surrender. "At least promise us you'll think about it, okay? Give yourself permission to be in the world, Greg. I think you'll find the world misses you."

"Fine. If promising to go out on a date will get you guys off my back, I'll find someone _myself_. No hookups, and that's final. Now, what were we talking about _before_ you steered us onto the scintillating topic of my mental health?"

Frank and Drew exchange a triumphant glance between themselves before smoothly shifting to a new subject. Greg is glad of it, but he can't really be too irked at their meddling. He knows he's been rough around the edges for the last few weeks, and clearly it's begun to show; it's good that his friends care enough to help, even though they have no idea what his problem actually is.

It's good, as well, that they don't know.

While they finish their dinner, he makes a mental note to talk to John. It's not _really_ seeing a doctor if it's just a chat with a friend, is it?

 

.

 

The next afternoon, Greg pulls out his phone as he's leaving the office.

Are you free to meet?                                
I'd like to ask for your                                
professional opinion.                                
In private.                              

               You're in luck: Sherlock's  
               on his way to a meeting.  
               I'll be alone at 221B for  
               the next few hours...

Thanks, John.                                
On my way over now.                              

He hails a cab and gives the address, settling back to look out the window with a pensive frown. It's one thing to promise himself that he'll be proactive, that he'll take steps to improve his health before it begins to impact the safety of his secret. It's another thing to actually go _through_ with it. The act of asking for help is dangerous in itself: one step too far and a safe lie could send him down a slippery slope.

 _John's a good man,_ he tells himself. _I can trust him; I just need to be careful what I say._

But he needs to think hard on what he's going to ask for. The idea of having John recommend or prescribe him some kind of sleep aid sounds good...until he puts his sleeplessness in the context of its logical cause. Waiting passively for the madman to show his hand—lying long, restless hours with the expectation that the air might disappear at any moment—it's taking its toll on him. But if he's drugged, when that dreaded time comes, what then?

He purses his lips in shame at the memory of the Chinese circus. _I could've lost them both, just because I was fucking crying! I can't risk being in a situation where I can't wake up fast...Sherlock's life could depend on it..._

The cab is still a few minutes away from Baker Street. The driver, a young man in a neat cap, is quietly humming a little tune to himself. When Greg realises, he turns his head away from the window, curious to see if he can figure out the song. It sounds familiar, like something he should have on the tip of his tongue. At the end of the refrain, Greg smiles, lifts his chin to catch the cabbie's eye in the mirror, and opens his mouth to ask.

Nothing comes out.

He sees the startled widening of the young man's eyes, likely a match to his own shocked expression. He hears the uncertain quaver of, "Hey, uh—you all right there?" behind the high-pitched rasp of his own wheezing. As he plants his hands on the seat to brace himself and struggles to snatch one last breath through the clenching void of his lungs, his vision quivers and darkens at the edges. Sound rises up around him, the murmur of a crowd in an echoing space and the blare of a tannoy speaker. Then the sight of the cab interior is entirely replaced by a colourful crush of bodies.

Greg's hovering around waist level, in amongst the coattails and handbags of the moving people; ahead, the familiar yellow striping marks the gap. Before he can lift his view upwards to see which Tube station it is, a flash of quick motion draws his attention. A boy, perhaps no older than ten, is slipping in behind a portly man in a camel overcoat. Thin fingers flicker out, pull back, jam into a dirty hoodie.

 _Pickpocket;_ Greg registers his assessment in the space of a heartbeat, snapping his invisible eyes around. His intuition tells him that Sherlock must be in the line of sight—and yes, there he is, waiting for his train near the line, leaning casually against a column and looking over the crowd.

Sherlock _has_ noticed the thief.

As Greg watches, a series of miniature expressions crosses Sherlock's face; it seems he's weighing the pros and cons of interfering. Although the part of Greg that sees himself as a mentor is rooting for Sherlock's upstanding citizenship, his purely protective side sees nothing but trouble ahead; it's a ripple, after all.

Three seconds later, Sherlock steps away from the column to call out, and the kid takes off running; by this time, Greg has already chosen his unknowing assistant. From his new position behind the eyes of a tall, burly man, only a pace away from Sherlock, he sees the delinquent's trajectory as he shoves his way towards an escape. Sherlock is in his path, but it seems he hasn't quite prepared for the sheer desperate force driving the flight: a head-butt to his stomach knocks the wind out of him and spins him wildly off-balance.

_Get him—_

Greg's thought is a firm instruction, _pushing_ the big man to lunge and throw an arm out. His hand catches at the back of the Belstaff's collar just as Sherlock tips over the line, arms flailing like windmills in the uneasy slow-motion of the ripple.

But the coat is unbuttoned— _damn it_ —the move changes Sherlock's momentum but doesn't stop his fall. The rumble of the approaching train grows louder in Greg's ears as he pivots the man on one foot, forcing him to drop his messenger bag to fling the other arm around. It's a near thing, but he grabs the fingers of Sherlock's hand as it flies backwards, and pulls at Greg's urging—together they fall into a heap, safely away from the drop to the tracks.

With that, the pressure lifts at once from Greg's chest, and air rushes back to him as the Underground wrenches queasily away from his view. Two hard blinks and he finds himself staring into the panicked face of the cabbie, turned entirely around in his seat in the now-stopped vehicle.

"Hang in there, yeah?" The man licks his lips and fumbles at a mobile phone with shaking fingers. "I'm dialling for help, right now—"

"Stop, no," Greg gasps out on his first full breath, "it's okay—it's okay. I'm all right, see? I'm fine now."

He slumps in relief to hear his passenger speak, but he still looks doubtful. "Pardon my saying, sir, but you don't _look_ okay!"

"Trust me, this happens to me a lot. It's nothing, really! Looks worse than it is, I promise." Still coughing a bit as his airways readjust, Greg turns to see that they've stopped in front of 221B. "Oh good, we're here. Thanks, I'll just—"

"My little brother's epileptic, so I know that weren't no seizure," says the cabbie, fast and nervous, throwing up a hand to make him wait, "but, sir, you should really be seeing a doctor, shouldn't you? I mean, that was a good _minute_ , there, you weren't breathing or nothing—I can run you over to St Mary's from here, no extra charge..."

Greg exits the cab, then turns back to him with as reassuring an expression as he can manage. "I appreciate the offer. But you've already done me one better; my private doctor is here, I was just on my way to see him. Here you go, now." He thrusts enough cash into the young man's hand to cover twice the fare, and steps back quickly to wave him on with a smile and nod.

As the cab pulls away, he stifles a relieved sigh and straightens his shoulders, resisting the urge to glance up at the windows above—or at the cameras, watching this address night and day. It's better not to draw any more attention to himself; out of the vehicle's semi-concealing shelter, anything suspicious about his body language will only call attention to whatever strange behaviour may already have been recorded.

Granted, Mycroft Holmes's analysts surely aren't watching specifically for signs of extraordinary feats, or supernatural powers. If they'd ever had the least idea what to look for, Greg probably would have lost his freedom long ago.

Still, he steps up to knock at the door quickly, his mask of normalcy firmly in place. Greg has been a conscript of Fate for thirty-seven years, now; he certainly knows better than to tempt it.

 

\-----

 


	2. A Dose of Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We're overdue to head back," he finds himself saying, sheepish, and the moment is lost.

  
**2\. A Dose of Comfort**   


.

 

The pills John prescribed are a marked improvement. They let Greg drop off to sleep relatively quickly, muting his persistent anxiety beneath a dizzy, soft sensation of presence—as if he's being held aloft by pillowy clouds and slowly spun in place.

They don't hold him there once he's under, though. That had been a non-negotiable requirement. To stress the point, he'd given John a story from a few years before Sherlock's first turn-up at a crime scene, in which he'd taken medication that had knocked him out and thus had missed a vital call from work. A large part of that story was fabricated, but of course John hadn't picked up on the lie.

John _had_ raised an eyebrow in mild surprise at Greg's confessed phobia of doctors, and had immediately made a conscientious effort to try and convince him to change his mind. It hadn't worked. By the time Greg had allowed him to listen to his heart and take his blood pressure, though, he'd visibly shifted from concern at being sought privately to quiet pride at having earned Greg's meagre trust.

"If you ever feel up to it, one day soon, you should make an appointment with me at the surgery," he'd said, tentatively; "I'd do my best to work with your needs in mind, and any procedures would be entirely at your discretion. But you're long overdue for a general checkup."

Greg had frowned and grunted something about doing just fine without, thanks very much, but then John had casually tacked on, "I'm sure Sherlock would be upset if you keeled over dead of a heart attack..."

Doctor Watson plays _dirty_. It probably should come as no surprise.

The prescription had therefore come at the cost of Greg's agreement—though he'd carefully said nothing of _when_ he would honour it—but at least the sleeping pills are a success. From that first night onward, he's gotten all the rest he needs, except on the nights when dreams have woken him. Those nights—once a week, sometimes twice—there's still not much he can do but get up. He turns on the news, or exercises, or sits with a cup of tea and that best-seller Drew hasn't shut up about for the last two months (not bad, if he could focus long enough for a whole chapter).

Sometimes he gets company on those sleepless nights, after a fashion. Sherlock had no doubt deduced whatever John hadn't outright told him, after he'd returned to Baker Street that day—alive and well, and surely giving no thought at all to the mundane, unplanned death he'd been spared in the Underground. Less than two nights later, having been yanked from the novelty of sleep by the first of those nightmares, Greg had received a text. _I rarely sleep when I'm working a case._ After a few frowning minutes, he'd replied, _So what have you got?_...and Sherlock had texted back about a missing painting.

It's nice to hear about the private cases again—to really _know_ about them, rather than just picking up dropped references here and there after the fact. Since John's been around, there hasn't been much call for it. Even now, Greg senses that these brief, frenetic communications are less about helping to alleviate his insomnia, and more about using him as a substitute audience when John so maddeningly insists on catching a few hours' rest. But it does help a little, hearing the sibilant baritone behind Sherlock's spin-cycle texts in his head when he's fighting against the otherworldly echo of whistling in an empty hallway, or the wild laughter of a dog.

He doesn't really question how Sherlock always seems to know just when to text. It's enough for him that he does.

 

.

 

About a week after that private meeting with John, Greg fields an interoffice call from DI Suzanna Bellamy. His vague memory of her from the Yard's annual social events brings up the image of a tall, slightly pear-shaped woman whose severely short-cut blonde hair does nothing to soften her angular face. Perhaps it's just his imagination, then, that her voice seems just as mismatched and harsh in his ear.

"You're the one who's always coddling that private detective, aren't you, Lestrade?" she says bluntly.

"Yeah, Holmes works with me from time to time," he concedes, frowning. "Why do you ask?"

"That arsehole trashed six days of my work on the Turner case, and took over without so much as a word of common courtesy! I want to know just where he gets off, thinking he's got the right to stick his nose in..."

He blinks and moistens his lips. "What, the missing Turner? He was hired privately, by the auction house, as far as I was aware."

Sherlock had been engaged on the case only after the auction house had become frustrated with the Yard's negligible progress. He had located the _Reichenbach_ painting after four days' effort, an accomplishment praised in this morning's highly publicised gallery reception. Greg hadn't really paid attention to Sherlock's dismissive comments about the quality of Scotland Yard's work regarding the stolen artwork; insults were merely par for the course, in his experience, and it wasn't his division to be concerned with, besides. At the time, he'd been more grateful for Sherlock's casual attention than anything else.

Presumably, Bellamy has been stewing over her hurt pride ever since she'd been displaced from the case, and the media coverage of the painting's unveiling was clearly the last straw. She snaps, "So he doesn't even answer to _you_ when he gets into Yard territory, then? I might've known."

"Look, Inspector Bellamy," he says, trying for a soothing and conciliatory tone, "I understand that you're upset. Sherlock Holmes is tough to handle, and I'll grant you he's not one for good manners. But the fact is, he gets the job done." _Which is more than we can say for you and your team,_ he adds silently.

"What does the head of your division think of it all, I wonder? Or for that matter, the Chief Superintendent?"

"I'm hardly the first DI to take advantage of a consultant," he points out. His eyes track the officers bustling back and forth, outside the soundproof glass of his office. "DI Gregson frequently consulted with a well-known Oxford professor on his tougher cases. That was _years_ ago, before I was even a sergeant, and nobody ever called _him_ into question. And Parsons—"

"Right, Richard Parsons, the _golden legend of Homicide_ ; oh, we've all heard the stories," says Bellamy, and he can hear her derisive amusement. "God, Lestrade, you've really been led up the garden path, haven't you? Well, far be it from _me_ to pull the wool from your eyes! It'll all come around, I've no doubt. In the meantime—you tell your _consultant_ to keep his poncy hands off cases where he's not invited."

Before he can retort in defence of his mentor's reputation, or his own, the unpleasant woman rings off. His receiver claps into its cradle, leaving his hands empty and itching for something to abuse; rather than slam his papers about he merely sits, breathing hard through his nose, glaring out at nothing until Sally Donovan crosses into his line of sight and knocks perfunctorily on his door.

"What is it," he says flatly as she sticks her head in.

Her brows rise briefly, but she doesn't ask the question he can see on her face. Instead she tells him, "They've escalated Daniel Mackenna's disappearance to probable abduction; apparently his briefcase and clothing were found on the north bank at Wapping this morning."

"Mackenna? That's the banker who made the papers a week ago, right? It's _busy_ out that way, they can't have missed finding it for so long unless the stuff was planted..."

Sally gives him something that's half nod and half shrug. "Iverson is passing it on to you; it's getting a lot of media attention."

"Bloody hell. So he thinks _I_ want it?"

"DCI Edwards wants you on the case. You've got no choice in the matter. Anyway, Iverson's on his way down here now to go over his file with you, fair warning."

"Fine. Thanks," Greg sighs, smudging thumb and finger across his eyes. Bellamy's warning is still echoing in his ears, and it has him feeling edgy and cross; he'll need to put on a cooperative face, and fast.

Maybe it's just mulishness, but he's already making plans to call Sherlock in on this one as soon as it's in his hands.

 

.

 

Peter Ricoletti has been an outstanding international fugitive for decades; Greg wasn't even nineteen when Interpol first put him on their Most Wanted list. Since then, he's been a name so ever-present on that list as to be all but ignored in practical terms, the vanished kingpin that nobody had the slightest hope of ever catching. Greg may or may not have entertained brief fantasies, during the early years in his career with the Met, about someday being the one to bring in a high-profile criminal like Ricoletti. Though it hadn't taken long at all before fast-rising cynicism had shrunk his ambition down to a more realistic scale, he supposes he's always kept some tiny fragment of that dream alive.

At any rate, when Sherlock had casually tossed out that name, Greg's eyes had shot wide and he'd had to sit down.

It had been near what should have been the end of the Mackenna case; Sherlock had located where the man was being kept, and all that was left had been to storm the place. With just one hour left to wait, Evan had just gone to fetch everyone one last coffee when Sherlock had looked up from his phone and said, "Cancel the arrangements, Lestrade. Quickly, while there's still time."

"You're kidding! What, did they kill the poor bastard already?"

"Not at all. In fact, I have a plan that will get me in contact with Mackenna, and give him all he needs to effect his own safe escape within seventy-two hours." Sherlock had glanced up to see Greg's flummoxed expression, and gestured with one shoulder towards where John sat unobtrusively in the corner of the office. "You can thank John for the crux of the idea; it's based on a trick he learned in his military days. Simple enough that with a little coordination from our end, even a muddle-headed coward like Mackenna can carry it out cleanly."

John had merely smiled and shrugged.

"Fine, yes, that's grand," Greg had said, pacing the room in agitation, "but _why_ , Sherlock? Can't we just have it over with, and get the man back to his family? We _know_ the location. And you said yourself, the layout of the site will allow us to get the jump on them without endangering the hostage!"

"Yes. But I rather think you'll want to let Mackenna get free without tipping off the man who originally gave the orders." He'd turned his phone around and held it up to show Greg a familiar grizzled face. "After all, you wouldn't pass up the chance to take down Peter Ricoletti, would you?"

Greg had nearly missed the chair, on his way down.

Thankfully, the plan had been a success, and at the end of three more tense and fractious days Mr Mackenna had at last rejoined his family, leaving his hired kidnappers clueless and confused. The inevitable publicity had been kept carefully separate from the Yard as much as possible, as a cover for the work which continued; this morning, the Mackennas had given their televised thanks to Sherlock alone, rather than acknowledge police involvement.

Meanwhile, Greg has been overseeing the preparation of the trap still to be sprung. If it works, there will be a _much_ more enjoyable press conference to look forward to within a few days. Unfortunately, Ricoletti is by no means a sure thing—unless one takes Sherlock wholly at his word—and so the business of minor cases must continue as usual.

Greg is on his way out of the mortuary labs at Barts, having just finished an errand for one of those minor cases, when Molly rounds a corner ahead of him.

She stops dead in the centre of the hall when she sees him approaching. "Greg! I didn't expect you today. It's not Wednesday yet, is it?" The glance she gives her watch is a resigned look of confusion, as if she's having the sort of week that would make mistaking the day no surprise at all.

"No, I was just dropping off a comparison sample for the Voigts case. Dr Amil said you were in meetings all morning? I hope everything's okay."

"Oh—yes, 'course it is. It's fine. Just your typical awful bureaucratic _mess_..."

His brow creases at the sight of her slumping shoulders. "Why, what's happened?"

"One of the lab assistants got into trouble, and I had to take part in the disciplinary hearing," she says, letting out a delicate sigh. "I just hate being the bad guy, Greg! It's _awful_."

He's got some experience with the feeling. "Here, you look like you could use some fresh air. Why don't we take a walk, go get a coffee? He can spare you for an hour's break, can't he?"

Finally, she smiles—it's weak and a touch watery, but it's there. "I'd like that. Let me just leave these things in my office."

 

.

 

They stroll together to his favourite coffeehouse, taking their time in the late April sunshine. Greg's enjoying the novelty of the situation; it's rare that they walk together outdoors. Most of their conversations over coffee take place in the dim, cool enclosure of Molly's staff room, or in the Barts cafeteria, or while walking through the halls of the hospital.

He opens the door and ushers her into the warmly furnished space. She trails agreeably behind him on the way up to the counter, and Greg doesn't think twice about placing their usual order—and it's not until that moment that he realises he recognises the barista across from him.

Cleo's hair is cropped short this month, and currently dyed a lovely shade of orchid pink. Her blue eyes widen and flick between him and Molly as she smilingly repeats his order: "Okay, so that's a large black, one sugar, and...a hazelnut latte?"

Greg says, "Yes, that's right," but he does his best to signal her silently. _Don't you dare say anything! Not a word!_

She smirks in response and follows up with, "Would either of you like anything else? We've got some _lovely_ fresh scones, today."

It's not just Cleo working today, of course. By the time the coffees are made, she's apparently sent some kind of psychic signal across the shop, because Jesse is right behind him when he turns to hand Molly her cup.

"Afternoon, sir," he says brightly. "Looking for a seat? I recommend the green armchairs, they've just opened up. Very cozy. Here, allow me to help carry your plates."

Greg shoots an exasperated look at him, but the young man is oblivious.

"The staff here is very pleasant," Molly observes, nodding thanks as Jesse shows her to a seat.

"They _are_ , aren't they? Funny that," Greg says, not quite a grumble, and rolls his eyes at Jesse's ostentatious wink.

For the next fifteen minutes there's no further embarrassment. Conversation on the way over had stayed casual, but now that they're seated and sipping at their drinks, the more serious topics are once again admissible by silent agreement. The fingers of Molly's left hand find the trailing end of her long braided hair, winding and twirling it while she roughly sketches out the story of the wayward lab assistant. Greg offers his sympathy, and a little bit of insight from his own years in a supervisory role, but he stops short of actually giving advice.

To cheer her afterwards, he tells her about Ricoletti and the plans for the upcoming raid. She puts up with hearing stories from his work quite frequently, both because her work often intersects with his and because he has a much shallower fund of personal anecdotes he's willing to relate...but somehow, she never seems to tire of them. In this case, his eager anticipation certainly seems to be contagious.

"That's great, Greg! You must be excited."

"Yeah, it's been hard to keep it a secret, really! The whole team, we're all practically buzzing with it. It won't be just me getting the credit; everyone involved will have a bright spot on their CV, you know? It's a good thing we've only got one more day to wait—Evan's even collecting funds to get Sherlock a little thank-you gift, assuming this goes off without a hitch."

"What will you give him?"

Greg laughs. "Evan suggested a lapel pin, but I'm thinking it'd be a laugh to get him a hat—you know, like that funny one from the photo they keep using in the papers..."

"He'll be furious! I love it!" After her giggle dies down, Molly leans in towards him, glancing aside, and quietly says, "So...is it just me, or has that guy been silently flirting with you the whole time we've been here?"

Suddenly it all seems so ridiculous he can't bring himself to be annoyed any longer; he lets out a rueful laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Yeah, sorry. Usually he's a bit more subtle about it..."

"Oh. Oh! Well, that's fine. I mean to say, um, I don't mind. If _you_ don't."

He smiles and shakes his head at Molly's flustered response. Craning his neck around to look over his shoulder, he catches Jesse's eye easily; the skinny young man is making a show of sweeping a nearby area of the floor that's looking cleaner than it ever has.

"Hey! Take it down a notch, will you, Jesse?" Greg calls, grinning at him when he startles and nearly drops the broom. Turning back to Molly he adds, "Don't know what he's after, he lost that wager two years ago!"

She cocks her head to one side, playing her twinkling eyes over him with a little smile. "You're a hard man to measure, Greg."

In that moment, he can feel the words on the tip of his tongue, feel the moment hanging in the balance—he's close, _very_ close, to asking her out on a real date. He knows he'd be making good on the promise he'd given his nagging friends, if he were to do so. He remembers, more vividly than he cares to admit, that moment at Christmas when his perception of her had shifted so radically.

He also remembers swearing himself to honesty. The thought of putting himself in that position again, either building a relationship entirely upon lies or putting his neck on the chopping block—

"Ah, damn, look at the time. We're overdue to head back," he finds himself saying, sheepish, and the moment is lost.

 

\-----

 


	3. Face to Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a rationalisation, but as Molly's chipper hello comes over the line he finds he's entirely satisfied with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [WastingYourGum](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WastingYourGum) for technical assistance on this chapter. <3

  
**3\. Face to Face**  


.

 

Seriously? Neither of you                                
thought it'd be a good idea                                
to fwd that email sooner?                                
_06:36_                               

               Sorry, I thought Sal told  
               you! It was in the briefing  
               on Monday, anyway... E.  
                _Evan Pritchard 06:39_

               I meant to talk to you but  
               you were busy. But I  
               thought you knew, too! -sd  
                _Sally Donovan 06:40_

Well for future reference,                                
when I'm expected in                                
court would someone                                
REMIND me!!!                                
_06:41_                               

It's been a hell of a morning. Bad enough, for starters, that the upstairs neighbour's had an emphysematic aunt as a houseguest this past week, hacking and coughing all night long and ruining Greg's lightly medicated rest. Worse that he'd found his coffee tin too empty to fix a full cup, and he'd been running late enough that trying to do anything else in the kitchen had been out of the question. It had been the icing on the cake, really, finding out that he needed to attend a hearing at the Magistrates' Court.

If Greg hadn't happened to check his email from his phone, partway through his half-asleep early morning commute, he'd have caught an earful from Edwards for failing to appear. After reading the message, experiencing a jolt of disbelieving anxiety over it, and exchanging the series of frustrated texts with his team, he'd immediately gotten off his train at the next stop. Then there had been the indecision, standing still in the moving crowd while trying to choose between re-routing on the Tube and springing for a cab; finally, in said cab, he'd remembered at the last minute to pull out the emergency tie he always keeps rolled up in an interior pocket of his coat.

The fact that he hadn't been required to bring any paperwork or prepared statement had been about the only blessing in the whole adventure; in fact, it hadn't seemed like they'd needed him for anything at _all_. By the time he'd made it out, tie stuffed unceremoniously back in his pocket, it had already been well past ten thirty.

Now that he's at work his head is pounding, and his stomach feels like it's attempting to kiss his spine...but he'd made a slight detour to visit a nearby coffee van on his way into the Yard, and thankfully they'd had a small selection of pre-wrapped scones on hand; he'd bought two to take up to his office.

Well, the labels had _called_ them scones, anyway.

They're certainly not of the quality that Cleo's been spoiling him with at his regular coffeehouse. This pastry is too dry, crumbling easily into rough, powdery cobblestones that threaten to spill from the paper wrapper. Still, it's the first sustenance he's had all day, and he's grateful for it.

He's just taken a big bite of the second one when his door is suddenly yanked open; Sally doesn't wait for an answer before leaning in to blurt, "Sir, there's been a break-in."

He wants to say, _Go tell someone who's had their sodding breakfast_ ; he wants to ask her if she's decided he needs a running bulletin of all current events, now, so that he doesn't miss any _more_ appointments; his mouth is unfortunately too full to successfully articulate either sarcastic remark. Instead he settles for simply mumbling around his mouthful: "Not our division."

"You'll want it," she says, breathlessly. "The Crown Jewels?"

"Fucking hell—"

The coffee is abandoned, the scone dropped in the bin; within three minutes flat they've taken out a car, and within three more he's screaming along the Victoria Embankment—literally, screaming.

"Who the hell has the balls to break into the Tower?" he rants, giving the wheel a good pop with the heel of his hand.

Sally's got Evan on the phone, calling from the Yard to feed her the information she's rattling off. "First response team ETA two minutes or less, two more teams incoming...Tower security's shut out of the systems, they've been hacked somehow...and the perp's managed to _lock himself in_ with the Jewels!"

Getting in, sure, Greg can understand the draw there; the Crown Jewels are a thief's fantasy. But not even trying to get out again? It beggars _belief_. He presses the accelerator a little harder and lets loose another loud jet of steam. " _Hacked_ into the Tower-of-bloody-London security! _How_?"

Sally's mobile rings, again—she'd only just hung up.

"Tell them we're already on our way," he snaps as she brings it to her ear.

She listens for a second and informs him, "There's been another one—another break-in." Her eyes widen. "Bank of England!"

He gapes at her for a moment before remembering to watch the road. "Fuck," he says, feeling his indignation quickly giving way to a sort of uneasy dread. "Fuck. Well, we're already closer to the Tower." _Maybe I should've let Sally do the driving,_ he thinks, licking his lips and carefully checking the grip of his suddenly sweaty fingers on the wheel. Something about this is suddenly seeming too grand—he's got a bad feeling, and it's tough to ignore. What if a ripple were to come, on top of everything?

A minute later, when Sally takes a third phone call and disbelievingly reports, "Pentonville Prison," all he can manage in response is an impassioned groan.

"Oh, _no_."

 

.

 

The Tower is already a riot of coloured lights and armed officers barking back and forth at each other. Greg's arrival, all spinning tires and slamming doors, seems wholly unremarkable in the larger context, and after he and Sally dash inside it actually takes a few long moments before anyone in the excited crowd recognises their position of relative importance. At last one of the higher ranked Special Response personnel takes it upon himself to loudly clear their path, and soon they're striding into the cramped security office, shoving at least two others out in the process.

The head of Tower security is sweating and wide-eyed, so tense that cords are standing out on his thick neck. "It happened so quickly—I'd just stood up for a second—it was all quiet, and then it just went to hell! I swear, I've no idea how anyone could've got access—"

"Breathe; you look ready to drop," Sally offers helpfully.

Greg takes the hint and breathes, too. "Have you got visuals?"

"This station has been locked out of the feed for the last few minutes, but Josh has confirmed that the recording's being saved intact. We'll get it. Isn't that _right_ , Josh?" asks the man, working a finger into his collar to tug fretfully at it.

"Yes Mr Klein, I'm working on it, sir," says his younger counterpart, hunching further over his keyboard and tapping away furiously.

"All right," Greg says. "Keep trying; it'd be best to get a live image before we get that door open, if we can. I want to know if there's any danger to the officers. Someone was saying this person took down a guard already?"

Klein nods, grimacing. "Two were in the display room with the Jewels, when the alarms were set off. Stevens and Allerton. Only Stevens made it out."

"Right, what progress on the door itself, then? Can we disengage the deadlock?"

"Not without access to system subroutines. But control of the door will return to us at the same time we regain the camera feed."

"I'm _working on it_ , I'm almost there," Josh says in a strained voice before the question can be asked.

When Josh gives his triumphant yell, finally, Greg is on the other end of the small room, head together with the Special Response sergeant over the handling of the unhappy tourists still being held in one of the courtyards. Sally immediately leans in, studying the camera feed with sharp eyes for any sign of danger. She looks up to send a quick, grim nod his way— _no weapons visible_ —and he nods curtly back, giving the verbal go-ahead to open the blast door while he's still working his way over to her and the others at the monitor desk.

The radios crackle confirmation, and there's a flurry of movement and shouting from the bank of now-active screens, just as he reaches Sally. Turning, he sees for himself—and his heart drops sharply within his chest.

He'd known it was a possibility, but he hadn't allowed himself to truly consider it.

" _Him_ ," he says, almost inaudible; Sally rests a hand briefly on his arm in silent agreement.

Jim Moriarty sits upon the throne in full regalia.

 

.

 

They've divested the offender of crown and sceptre, and are now ushering him out towards the main entryway. Greg hurries out from the security office to meet them, reaching the open space just in time to watch them guide him in.

For a man with a past made all but invisible, a man whose very existence is whispered like a ghost story among criminal circles worldwide, Moriarty himself is a startling sight in person. He's shorter than the officers who so easily restrain him, and his clinging white t-shirt accentuates his slight, bony frame; he walks with his head lowered just enough to imply meekness. Moriarty's legend—that of the ruthless, cruel genius—seems far greater than the probable sum of his parts, as he displays them here. But Greg already knows more than enough to take that legend quite seriously.

He's meant to step up, now, and perform the arrest; his feet balk unexpectedly, refusing to carry him forward until Sally nudges him with an elbow. Thankfully the hesitation goes all but unnoticed by the others in attendance.

"James Moriarty," he begins, "I am arresting you..."

As he goes on, the man lifts his head; his eyes slide across, dark embers that burn triumphantly out of the shadowed, almost reptilian planes of his face. He looks Greg up and down, slowly— _not just slowly: knowingly?_ —and smirks to hear him immediately stumble in his recitation.

_He wants this._

The thought echoes through Greg's head, unbidden. He has to fight to keep his tongue moving over his words.

_Why does he want this?_

"...in evidence. Do you understand?"

There's a beat of expectant silence, long enough that Greg wonders if he's inadvertently flubbed the arrest script in his distraction. Then Moriarty tilts his head closer, minimising the arm's length between them, and speaks.

" _Thank_ you, Detective Inspector."

It's soft and low, clearly meant for Greg's ears alone; the throaty drawl lingers over each syllable, twisting the polite phrase into something unmistakably depraved.

Greg pulls away with a fast step backwards, unthinking, and immediately curses himself for his blatant reaction. "Take him away," he orders, shaken.

He keeps uneasy eyes fixed on Moriarty until the car is gone entirely, and only then does he contact Sherlock.

 

.

 

Three and a half weeks later, Greg stands before a familiar closed door, hesitant to knock. The corridor is quiet; the doors of every flat along it exude an identical expectant silence.

He's come prepared: holding the fragrant bouquet up before him like a shield, he pats at his coat to reassure himself that the small box of Belgian chocolates is still there. Next he shifts on his feet, clears his throat and smooths over his hair to neaten it, wishing briefly for a mirror so that he can be sure he looks his best. There's no reason he should be feeling nervous—truly, there isn't; this is a greeting he's made countless times, over the years.

Still...he's never yet done it under these circumstances.

Biting back a tense sigh, he knocks at last. By the time the security chain on the door is rattled and dropped, he's turned the flowers three times, searching for the most pleasing angle of presentation.

"Baba. _Bună seara_ ," he says to the petite woman who pulls the door open. "Thought I might join you for your Sunday dinner, if you'll have me."

Her dark eyes are wide and bright, and wisps of fine white hair frame her face where they poke out beneath a patterned kerchief of crimson and electric pink. "Greg! _Salve_! In, in, come on now! You wicked, wicked boy, you _promised_ me you'd visit more than this!"

He allows himself to be chivvied in, smiling despite himself at Cosmina's obvious excitement. "I know I did, Baba, and I'm sorry,"—here he looks warily to the other woman in the room—"I just wasn't sure I'd truly be welcome..."

Baba Cosmina scoffs loudly, claiming her bouquet and tottering off to the kitchen with it while muttering something in Romanian, but Greg's attention remains on Elena. Her mostly white hair is pinned up tightly in a braided bun at the nape of her neck, and while her silent expression on its own appears neutral, her crossed arms and straight posture lend it a worrying severity.

"Mrs Bernard," he greets her carefully, readying himself for fireworks or ice.

She appraises him for a long few seconds, and then her face softens into something mostly fond. "Call me Elena," she chides him, stepping forwards to draw him into a brief hug.

It's not _call me Mama_ , but Greg will gladly take it. Pulling back, he reaches into his inner pocket and presents her with the box. "Here, for your birthday last week; I'm sorry it's late."

Elena's eyes light up as she accepts it; she's not meant to have too many sweets, but these are her very favourites. "That's very thoughtful, Greg."

"You're hungry, I hope," Baba calls from out of sight.

"Ravenous. Whatever you've got cooking, it smells amazing."

It's not as difficult as Greg had imagined it might be, settling into a visit with these two ladies. They're no longer his family by law, of course, but it hardly seems to matter. After twenty-two years, Cosmina _is_ his grandmother, no question about it, and he loves her dearly.

There's no telling what Nadia has or hasn't said to her mother and grandmother, to explain the sudden finality with which she'd ended their long-troubled marriage. He'd feared her story, whatever it was, would sour their opinion of him; perhaps it had done, in Elena's case. Throughout dinner, she sends unreadable looks his way...but Baba is pleased as punch to have his company.

"I heard your name on the news again, yesterday," she chatters. "Did that man really do all those awful things they said? The bank, and the gaol, at the same time—and the Crown Jewels, too?"

"Yes," he answers shortly, setting down his fork. Suddenly his appetite isn't what it was. Sighing, he elaborates, "Nothing was actually stolen from Bank of England when the vault was opened, as far as we've been able to find so far; they're doing a check of all electronic accounts, to be sure. There was a small riot at Pentonville when their security failed, but aside from a few prisoner injuries, it was successfully contained. As for the Jewels...he never made it out of the room with them."

"Such a lot of trouble he caused, then, for nothing," Elena says, and with that dismissive verdict the conversation turns to the latest developments in the continuing sordid story of their little neighbourhood's local troublemaker.

Greg falls silent and stares at his half-full plate while the ladies gossip, musing on her statement. It's true. Moriarty is safely imprisoned, now, and the sheer audacity of his crime will ensure his case is rushed to trial with unprecedented speed. There may be as few as two more weeks to wait, before the start of what the media has already begun calling the "Trial of the Century"—and then, what? Clearly the man is guilty. Arrest, exposure, public revilement, and years of imprisonment likely ahead—what part of all this was the goal? What benefit could he have expected to reap from it all? And if all three tendrils of the plot had been an effective failure in terms of assets gained or inmates escaped, as it certainly seems... _why_ is Greg so certain Moriarty had been _happy_ to be caught?

He's still mulling over this uncomfortable question when Baba Cosmina's hand on his arm startles him into reality.

"Greg. Eat, _dragă_ ," she urges him. "You've been wasting away."

"Hardly," he protests. If anything, he's _gained_ weight in the last year. Middle age isn't so much creeping up on him as it is barging loudly in, banging pots together.

Baba shakes her head and tuts. "Too much junk food, too much eating alone. A man of _thirty stone_ is no better than a starveling if he has no loved one to break bread with him!" She taps her serving spoon at the edge of the casserole, to emphasise her nonsensical point. "You must have a _iubita_ by now, yes? A sweetheart?"

His eyes widen and flick over to Elena at once; surely he can't be expected to discuss his dating prospects with his former in-laws? "Er—well...I haven't been, um..."

"Hush, Mama, you're making him squirm," Elena says; she raises an eyebrow, appraising his discomfort. Her slight smile does absolutely nothing to relieve it. "Though I do hope you're not wasting any more time pining after my fool girl, Greg. It'll do you no good; she's long past learning from her mistakes."

"No," he answers, and his firm certainty of the truth in it is like a thunderclap somewhere in his chest. He pulls in a deep breath around it. "I lost her a long time ago, I know that now. I won't be trying to get her back again."

Elena nods, and Cosmina gives his hand an approving pat; Greg returns his attention determinedly to his plate, filling his mouth with food to give himself time to think on what he's just heard himself say.

After Dartmoor, the sudden, looming threat of Moriarty's unknown plot had, in essence, shocked him out of the three-month downward spiral of mourning his marriage. Tonight, looking back, it's already easy to separate his loneliness from Nadia, the ever-present state of being from the individual who had supposedly caused it. It's _easy:_ he's lonely down to his bones, he yearns and aches with an almost professional finesse, but he sees now that he's _always_ been that way.

His oblivious perseverance through all those rocky years, his desperate attempt to reconcile before he'd moved out, the hope he'd held onto over nearly two years' separation, the shaky, giddy dance of re-connection that had turned so suddenly sour—all of that had been nothing more than a stopgap measure, a dribble directed into a steadily leaking vessel that could never be filled beyond halfway.

_And if I can't fill my heart, what could be the harm in trying to keep it from emptying, after all?_

After dinner is over, he walks out feeling oddly lighter, with a spring in his step he's certain wasn't there before. On his way into the lift, he happens to catch sight of his faintly smiling reflection in the mirrored chrome of its trim. Between one second and the next, he suddenly knows what he wants to do.

 _This isn't because I've apparently got what amounts to permission,_ he tells himself, pulling out his phone and dialling. _This is because Moriarty is in custody, and Sherlock is safe. What better time to take a chance?_ It's a rationalisation, but as Molly's chipper hello comes over the line he finds he's entirely satisfied with it.

 

\-----

 


	4. Dangerous Distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I wanted to know; now I bloody well know,_ he thinks, and waves the waiter over to call for the check.

  
**4\. Dangerous Distraction**  


.

 

Though Greg's friends have done nothing so brash as interrogate him regarding his possible romantic (or sexual) prospects, by no means have they dropped the subject entirely.

During a post-shift evening in the pub a few weeks ago, Frank had convinced Ollie to add his voice, joining in what he and Drew clearly continue to see as a worthy cause. Greg had hoped that Ollie, steadfast and content with decades of marriage under his belt, would take his former superior's side and agree that a man in Greg's situation is perfectly capable of remaining both happily unattached _and_ ungratified; sadly, Ollie had come down on the "plenty of pebbles on the beach" side of the debate.

Annoying marine idioms aside, it had been irksome to defend himself that night. And it's still frustrating now, not least because there's no way at all to be honest with them; telling his friends _why_ he'd resigned himself to remaining single is still a terrible idea. The only arguments he can safely give them are vague excuses that make him sound as if he's still pathetically pining after Nadia—or, worse, that he's got some burgeoning desire to take a vow of celibacy. He remembers the short period in his teenage years during which his family believed he was on his way to seminary; that's a misconception he has _no_ desire to revisit with his mates.

And, besides—he's rapidly coming to the conclusion that his position on the whole matter is shaky at best.

His phone call to Molly on Sunday night had been brief and probably a bit clumsy. It's been quite a while, after all, since he's asked anyone out. Still, she'd accepted his invitation and even seemed enthusiastic, if understandably confused at his apparently sudden interest in seeing her outside their semi-regular coffee break chats.

For his own part, Greg has spent most of the past work week vacillating between anticipation and dread. But now that Friday has arrived at last, he's ready. His haircut is less than two days old; he'd taken twice his usual time shaving and dressing this morning; he's wearing his favourite suit, with the one pair of oxfords he owns that haven't yet been battered into a scuffed mess. All that had remained to do was to get through the work day, and make a final decision on which of his two go-to restaurants Molly might like better.

Unfortunately, the work day has other plans for him.

It's only three o'clock in the afternoon; he isn't meant to meet Molly 'til seven, but he's just spent twenty minutes on the phone with a South Yorkshire DCI, and five minutes more with John while Sherlock raved on about something in the background. Now he's sitting in a fleet car waiting on Evan to hurry down from their office, and he has just enough time in private to dial one more number before they get on the road.

"Hi Greg! I'm glad you called," Molly says. There's noise behind her words; it sounds like she's walking briskly through a crowded space. "I was wondering if I should, um, stop at home and change? I mean, I've been at work of course, and what I've got on is probably fine, but I wasn't sure—"

He grimaces and cuts her off. "Yeah, Molly, I'm really sorry, but I've gotta cancel tonight."

"Oh. What's wrong?"

"What is it, ever?" He sighs and says, "I've been called onto a murder in Sheffield. I'm just on my way now."

"All the way up there? I was going to ask next if you were going to need _me_ back at work tonight, but I'm guessing not!"

"No, I'll be coordinating with the mortuary at Royal Hallamshire; they're keeping it local, of course. They'd have kept the investigation local, too, except the MO raised a flag that links this with a triple case I had last year..."

"Well, needs must. It's okay, Greg, you know I don't mind," she tells him brightly.

 _She sounds pretty casual about it, like she thinks it's just a friendly dinner I've asked her to. Or like that's all she wants it to be?_ "Thanks for understanding," he says, quickly stomping down on his doubts. "But can we reschedule, though? I should be done with this mess in a day or two; I could take you out then."

"Oh—no, sorry, that won't work! I've got that pathology seminar to go to, remember? It's the long one, I'll be away for the next two weeks."

"Aw, yeah, I totally forgot. Damn." He isn't ready to give up, though, even if it _does_ make him sound desperate. "The night you get home, then? Which night is that?"

"The ninth, but my flight will get in late. How about the next night?"

"Friday the tenth. Yeah, great—I'll make us a reservation. Somewhere nice. It's a date," he says, and adds a little awkward laugh, just in case she hasn't got the same idea.

 

.

 

It rarely surprises Greg, anymore, when Sherlock insists on travelling to a crime scene separately from him. Occasionally he puts up an argument—sometimes it really is ridiculous, the fixation on arriving independently for the sake of dramatic entrances and exits—but today he's glad to have relative peace in the car. Evan, of course, chatters nonstop for the first twenty minutes of the three and a half hour drive, but after that he settles to commenting only sporadically, leaving Greg to stare out the passenger side window and mull over the case that had cost him his date.

They'd called them the Cat's Cradle killings, around the Yard; thankfully, that tongue-in-cheek nickname had failed to gain traction with the media in the few days before Greg had made his arrest. The case had been a vicious but seemingly clear-cut murder spree. Over the course of a single day in February, last year, the killer had paid visits to three of his former classmates. He'd taken care to arrange each victim in the same way, suspended a metre from the floor in elaborate and no doubt symbolic trusses of knotted nylon rope. While he'd been savvy in his choice of materials, and had certainly attempted to obscure the more damning evidence, it hadn't taken much to track him down: Greg and his team had patiently turned over stones for a few days until they'd put it together.

Maybe it would have been easier if he'd simply asked for Sherlock's help. But this had happened less than a week after John Watson had moved in—and promptly shot a man in his new flatmate's defence. Later in that month there _had_ been cases on which John had tagged along after Sherlock as an amiable assistant, to the continued bafflement of Sally and the others—while Greg, with his insider knowledge, had tended to regard him more as a worryingly quiet guard dog. However, during the first week after the serial suicide case Sherlock had been all but unreachable, presumably settling into life at the new address and with his new friend.

Admittedly, Greg hadn't tried all that hard to get his consultant on the Cat's Cradle case. Perhaps Sherlock had been busy acclimating to a new situation, but Greg's own adjustment had been no less wrenching. He'd been so used to things as they were—to being the only reliable bridge between Sherlock's brilliance and a widely unappreciative world—and John had changed _everything_.

Even now, thinking back on those first months gives Greg a tiny twinge of wistful envy. But it's easy to put aside. Picturing Sherlock and John on the train to Sheffield is enough to make him smile instead; he imagines them sitting with heads tilted close, laughing together over some private joke, relaxed and easy. The pair of them are a perfect team, an insular unit...utterly, blissfully unaware of Greg's hidden stake in their survival.

He gazes out over the passing scenery, and silently thanks the powers that be for everything John is.

Then he clears the sudden tightness from his throat, and asks Evan a question about his favourite football club.

 

.

 

The car beats the train, in this case; arriving on the scene, Greg consults with the DI and his team, apologises in advance for anything his consultant might say or do, and then settles near the door to wait. When Sherlock stalks impatiently into the abandoned office building twenty minutes later, the first thing out of his mouth amounts, unsurprisingly, to an accusation.

"Why didn't you have me on this case the _first_ time around?"

 _Because you and John were in your honeymoon phase_ doesn't seem a prudent answer. "Thought I had it handled," Greg says instead.

"Obviously not well, if the killer is back at it while the man _you_ arrested sits in prison!"

"He might not have been wrong, though, Sherlock. Could be a copycat," John points out, hustling along behind.

"If it is, then it's someone who saw the original killer's work, or spoke to him about it," says Greg, glumly ushering them into the correct room. "The way the one leg is tied, pointing up, like that—it wasn't a publicised detail."

"Mm. It is rather distinctive, I'll grant." Tilting his head to better appreciate the strange, almost balletic suspension of the body, Sherlock edges around the side of the heavily shadowed room.

Greg slips a penlight from his pocket as he goes around the opposite way. When the call had come in and he had realised he'd be needing Sherlock, he'd pleaded with the Sheffield inspector not to alter the scene until they arrived. It had earned him a fair amount of grumbling, but he'd finally secured a promise that the proceedings would be delayed.

Accordingly, the short-statured victim remains just where he'd been found, strung up by ropes looped around the struts of an overhead electrical fixture. Nothing at all has been changed—not even the lack of light; that's probably the local force's way of showing their irritation with his request, but Greg would rather have _that_ than one of Sherlock's ruined evidence tantrums.

"It's exactly the same, from what I can tell," Greg declares, directing the comment towards where John still hesitates by the door. The body swings gently around in an undetectable breeze, creaking quietly in the knotted cradle of rope: just like the three he'd seen the previous winter.

Sherlock steps around to stand beside Greg just as the dead man's face edges into the shafts of light from the window and torch. His hair is close-cropped and sandy, his slack features soft-edged and unremarkable in a way that is at once familiar.

"John, go find that Anderson analogue and tell him we'll need the body lowered," Sherlock snaps immediately, halting his friend before he can follow them across the room.

"Already? I thought you'd want—"

"It'll take him a while, he's slow. We need light, too! Go. Now."

After John leaves, they stand in silence, watching the body sway.

"It doesn't look _that_ much like him," Greg murmurs, after a long moment.

Sherlock remains frozen, staring, his only movement a rapid, erratic flutter of his eyelids.

"Hey." Wetting his lips, Greg searches for words; he settles on, "It's all right, Sherlock, I understand." He doesn't manage to say the rest: _You're afraid he'll get hurt, following after you. Trust me, you're not alone in that. I worry for you both, every day..._

The ice cracks with a harsh scoff, as Sherlock jerks his arm from Greg's tentative touch. "There's nothing for you to _understand_! I'm _fine_." He drags in a loud breath and pushes it out, then twists away and bends close to the body to prod at the strangulation marks with gloved fingers; chastened, Greg hurries to redirect his light to the area.

It's a clear request to drop the subject; less than a minute later, their privacy is shattered anyway, with the arrival of the forensics team and two quietly smirking sergeants bearing the portable light they'd withheld. Sherlock's expression remains shuttered and stony, and he doesn't spare a glance for Greg as the local officers set to work. Greg keeps a wary eye on him as he moves to the doorway of the now-crowded room; John waits just outside, hands stuffed in the pockets of his black jacket, wearing a distinctly perturbed frown.

"They didn't give you trouble, did they?" asks Greg, stepping out to have a quiet word.

"Not really, but I think the DI is wishing he'd taken today off. What about _him_? He's got a bug up his arse all of a sudden, hasn't he?"

"Don't worry about it. He's upset with me, not you."

John gives him a quizzical look. "Why should he be upset with you? He's been bouncing off the walls all week, with nothing to do but wait for the trial. I swear, if I have to hear about Moriarty's evil brilliance one more bloody time—"

Greg nods. "Yeah, I know what you mean. Well, it'll all be over soon, right?"

"It had _better_ be," John replies darkly, just as a minor commotion arises behind them; they walk back in, and as soon as Sherlock sees Greg he starts in on a rapid-fire tirade that sends most of the unprepared bystanders back a pace or two, or out of the room entirely.

"You asked me to follow you up here to see about a _special_ case. Something that could be 'more than what it seems,' you said. That was merely your excuse to get me interested, wasn't it, Lestrade? To convince me to help you, because you were embarrassed that you'd apparently come to a bad conclusion? Well, I can tell you already that this is merely the work of the original killer's lover; she's trying to throw doubt on the conviction, in hopes that he might earn release, but she's shorter and weaker than he is. She's had to carefully choose a victim diminutive enough to be overpowered, and even at that she _still_ had to drug the poor man first. It's pedestrian, at best—it hasn't got _anything_ to do with Moriarty's network," Sherlock says, glaring at him.

"First of all, how d'you know all that for sure? And secondly, I never said it _did_ have anything to do with him. But maybe you could try to sound a little less _disappointed_ about it!"

"Why shouldn't I be disappointed? The trial is set to begin in a week, and I'm no closer to piecing together how he did it, or even why!"

Greg cuts his eyes over to John in time to see him spread his hands at his sides and walk out in a silent huff. Resisting the urge to sigh, he asks, "Shouldn't _that_ he did it be enough?"

" _You're_ disappointed to be here, too," Sherlock observes somewhat viciously, brushing off the question as the last of the bewildered policemen slips past him to escape the room. "You had plans for tonight. A _date_ , and you were quite eager about it, weren't you?"

"No." The denial comes to Greg's lips automatically. "I was supposed to have dinner with my grandmother. In law, former. Baba likes it when I dress up and bring flowers, says it reminds her of her late husband." He doesn't want to hear Sherlock's disparaging comments about Molly and her taste in men—or whatever deductions he might have on the likely outcome of it all.

"Hm." Sherlock looks him up and down a second time, more deliberately, landing on Greg's face and narrowing his eyes with a frown.

"What?"

"Everything you say—it always reads as _true_. Even when I already know it's a lie, or a partial fabrication, based on the evidence available to me. I can never _tell_ , with you. How do you do that?"

Greg blinks, struck silent by an odd juxtaposition of strong emotions; Sherlock's statement is reassuring, no doubt, but he's terribly saddened all the same. As he turns away, arms tightly crossed, it's hard to hide the weary shame in his voice.

"Years and years of practice, Sherlock."

 

.

 

Greg has been a DI for over eleven years, and in that time he's taken the stand often enough to know the ropes. He knows how to keep his cool, and stick to laying out the facts in a neutral tone; his testimonies are generally uneventful, and largely unassailable in the defence's hands. Perhaps he hasn't got the jury-winning charm of some of his colleagues—Frank Drake comes to mind—but he gets the job done, and he's fairly sure he does it well.

Unfortunately, being in the same room as Jim Moriarty again is distracting. Intensely so.

As he's prompted to lay out the events of the Tower response and arrest, and detail his part in them, he finds his eyes slipping repeatedly from the prosecuting barrister, tracking over against his will to find those of the man who stands handcuffed in the opposite dock. They're like black holes, glinting beneath slim brows and slicked hair, and they slide lazily around the courtroom in barely concealed amusement.

Whenever those slow-slithering eyes touch his, Greg stumbles over his words, stammers mid-sentence. And each time he falters, Moriarty reacts: a long, indolent blink, or the faintest hint of a satisfied smirk. It's a subtle, insidious taunting, and nobody else appears to see it—but to Greg, it's unmistakable.

He's hovered, bodiless, over that man's shoulder; he's been close enough to hear his breathy chuckle as he decided to seal Sherlock's fate, and John's; he's _touched Moriarty's mind_ , however briefly, however unsuccessfully—and he hasn't felt entirely _clean_ ever since...

The barrister's voice startles him back to himself; he blinks hard to shake away the creeping anxiety and listen. "So. 'Get Sherlock'. A message written upon the glass before it is shattered, solely for the view of the then-disabled video cameras. Upon sight of this footage, were you immediately aware to whom the message referred?"

"Yeah. Yes. I mean, of course I was. Sherlock Holmes is my consultant, I work with him frequently."

"But you didn't contact him until after the arrest; is that correct?"

"Not for a few minutes, no." _What does that have to do with anything? This is meant to be the prosecution, isn't it?_

Perhaps Greg's suspicious frown has an echo on the face of the judge—he doesn't turn to see—but the barrister immediately backtracks and explains, "I'm merely attempting to lay out all of the facts within an accurate time-frame."

"I wanted to wait, I didn't want Sherlock there with—I wanted to be sure he was _safe_ ," Greg blurts, and immediately regrets it. Not that it matters much, in terms of the factual testimony. It probably makes him look foolishly paranoid, though.

What danger could there have been in a single unarmed man, being led into custody in the company of two dozen armed officers? If the defence sees their opening and calls him back to question his statement, he knows he won't be able to explain his bone-deep aversion to the defendant.

Through the brief remainder of his questioning, he silently berates himself for being so transparent; thankfully, he manages to avoid any further missteps. After he's released, he wastes no time in getting out into fresh air and sunshine, dialling John's number as he emerges.

"Just got out of there. God, I'm a _wreck_ ," he says, squinting into the sky.

"Yeah? Well, it could be worse, I guess—after all, you _did_ catch him red-handed with the crown on his head. On camera, and all." John's voice is cheery, but the forced optimism drops away to seriousness in an instant. "Did he do anything?"

"Nothing notable—just stood there looking like the cat that ate the _cream_ , the whole time I was in there! It's as if the whole thing's a bloody lark, to him; I don't get it. I'm concerned, John."

"Me too," he agrees grimly. "You know Sherlock testifies, tomorrow. I don't hold out much hope that he'll rein himself in. And to make it worse, the press has been camped outside here since ten this morning; Mrs Hudson's in a tizzy."

"I'll send Pritchard 'round in a panda car, to escort you. Got that? Don't you let him run off for a cab."

"I'll make sure he knows the plan. Thanks, Greg."

"Yeah, least I can do. Look, I can't take any more time out of work for all this unless I get called back by the defence. You'll let me know what's going on, right?"

"You'll know it as soon as I know it," John assures him.

 

.

 

" _Sanguine_. Is that a word? That's the word," John says, lipping at the edge of his pint glass. He was already at the pub, when Greg arrived, and it sounds as if he's taken the opportunity to get a head start. "It's like you said, Greg. He's playing with us, he's got to be."

Greg gestures to the barkeep for his own pint. "So what does Sherlock think?"

"How should I know? Ever since Tuesday afternoon, after I bailed him out, he's practically turned mute!"

Sherlock's arrest for contempt of court hadn't been all that surprising, frankly. There's a _reason_ Greg takes pains with their cases, translating all of those Holmesian explanations into publically accessible terms and filtering out the involuntary insults; it would never have been _his_ choice to put Sherlock in front of a judge and jury.

"Is he upset, then?" asks Greg.

John's fleeting expression in response crunches up his forehead almost comically. "No; not really—I think he's just...processing the problem? Sherlock's not ignoring me, exactly, he's just not _talking_ , and he clearly wants me to keep watching the trial and reporting back. Which is awful, by the way. Be glad you've been working all week."

"Yeah, I am. I wouldn't spend another hour in the room with Moriarty if you paid me."

"And you haven't even had the pleasure of being strapped into a bomb vest by the psychotic prick. I should be paying someone _else_ to sit in the gallery," John says morosely, and takes another swig of beer. "Anyway, you wanted the play-by-play, right?"

"If you don't mind going through it, yeah." It's been good to get the occasional texts from John all week, but Greg knows he'll feel better with a real sense of the case laid out by the prosecution.

John nods. He begins with Tuesday, and Sherlock's trademark lack of restraint; by the time he's gotten through Friday's events, Greg has unthinkingly ordered a second drink.

"He should be reacting more," Greg protests. "And so should his defence! The case is strong, but it's not airtight."

"Exactly! I can't understand it. Whatever they have up their sleeve, it must be big. I just want this to be _over_."

Greg can't help a weary sigh in agreement. He hasn't slept properly all week, even with the pills, and now the beer has his empty stomach churning in tense knots. "Well, we're halfway there, anyway; it's time for the defending barrister to call witnesses, next. By this time tomorrow, we should at least have some idea—" Breaking off, he looks at his watch: it's a full half hour later than he'd thought. He's meant to be elsewhere, in less than five minutes. " _Fuck_ , I'm late! I gotta go, John. Talk to me again tomorrow, okay?" He chugs what's left of the beer, slaps some notes on the bar, and rushes out, ignoring John's confused stare.

 

.

 

When Greg gets into the restaurant, the maître d' is occupied with an arriving group. Rather than wait, he ducks past the host station and spots Molly, seated at a small table at the back of the dining room. She's wearing a knee-length dress in dark blue print, with a high buttoned collar and sleeves that cuff smartly at the elbows, and as he approaches he can see that her dainty ankles are crossed beneath her chair, the free foot jiggling in either nerves or impatience. She sits facing away from him, so he clears his throat to avoid startling her as he reaches the table and slips into the opposite seat. "God, Molly, I'm so sorry I'm late," he says. "Something came up, and I couldn't get away. I feel awful, keeping you waiting."

Molly waves off his apology. "It was no bother, really! I just gave them your name. Then, they assured me they'd _especially_ saved the _exact_ table you requested." She twists her head around to glance behind her chair, at the hallway leading to the restrooms, then turns back to give him a pointedly questioning look.

 _Shit. She wasn't supposed to find out I actually asked to be way back here!_ "Uh, yeah,"—he rubs at his neck sheepishly—"it's not exactly the best seat in the house, is it? I spent half Wednesday and all of Thursday this week miserable with food poisoning; I was feeling pretty awful when I called in the reservation, but I didn't want to reschedule again, yeah? So, just in case I was still out of sorts by tonight, I figured..." He gestures at the hall, shrugging, and her face softens.

"I'm sorry to hear it, Greg. You could have cancelled, though. It wouldn't have been any trouble."

Something about the way she says it raises his hackles, if only just a little—or perhaps he's just feeling tense because he's had to start the evening off with a blatant lie. The little grin he gives her doesn't quite feel genuine. "Anyway, I _am_ feeling better. Sorry I forgot to call and change our table. So, how was your seminar?"

It seems a safe topic to start things off; Molly's pretty brown eyes light up as she begins to recap her fortnight away. They pause to order wine and food, and again when they are served, but she has lots to say and Greg is happy to listen. Even when the subject matter strays far beyond his professional interests and he lacks anything intelligent to add, he continues to ask questions; her voice is sweet and soothing, muting his insistent worry.

"...and then they demonstrated a new method for softening preserved cartilage; I think Sherlock would be very interested in hearing about that, actually," Molly says, lifting a forkful of penne to her mouth.

The name echoes sharply in Greg's thoughts, and he feels a tiny chill; his smile falters.

_It's always Sherlock, isn't it?_

Over the three years since Greg set up the lab-sharing arrangement at Barts, Molly's been entirely transparent in her yearning for the untouchable genius. As much as Greg's feelings have recently changed, he hasn't let himself dwell upon whether hers have shifted at all— _and what if they haven't?_ It's not beyond belief that she might still hold out hope for her crush, or for someone like him. After all, he's lean, energetic, brilliant, bright-eyed, graceful—all things that Greg can never hope to be...

"I want to thank you," he hears himself say, "for meeting me tonight, Molly. I've been thinking, lately, about how we've known each other for such a long time."

"Yes, gosh, it's been more than ten years now, hasn't it? You've been a good friend to me, Greg."

 _But did you ever think I might be more?_ He washes the thought away with a quick slug of wine. "You, too—dunno what I'd have done if I hadn't had you there to listen to me," he says instead.

She tilts her head, smiling fondly. "You haven't had it easy, I know. All that pain your wife put you through... Anyway, that's all over with now, isn't it! Here's to moving on, and meeting someone new," she declares, extending her glass.

He accepts the toast automatically, but as they drink he's confused. "Sorry, what?"

"Oh, I saw Detective Inspector Drake this morning, on his way out of a consultation with Dr Amil. He mentioned he'd convinced you to start dating again. I can't believe you didn't tell me sooner!"

"I, uh..."

"I _figured_ you must have some good news, to warrant a celebratory dinner. So? Tell me all about her, already! I'm dying to hear."

Greg flinches a little at her open, eager expression. "No, I—no. Sorry. Frank's got it wrong. There isn't anyone."

"Oh. Um."

They eat in awkward silence for a minute. He scrabbles around in his thoughts for something to say—something _other_ than the casual commiseration on their respective love lives that forms the unfortunate backbone of their friendship—anything, _anything_ to break this strained, squirming moment. He can practically _feel_ her realising his intentions for the evening. It's obviously come as a surprise to her, and judging by her body language it's not exactly a pleasant one.

_Fuck. I should have been more direct; she could have turned me down with a clear conscience or accepted out of pity—_

"Look, I'm sorry about this," he begins abruptly, just as Molly swallows a bite and blurts out, "I didn't mean to presume..."

"No, that's my fault," he tells her, grimacing. "I haven't got a lot of experience with this sort of thing."

"I shouldn't have. Presumed, I mean. If I'd thought to ask—but we've never—" Her stammering quickly devolves into a flustered series of gestures, her face flushing pink, and his heart sinks a little further.

"Don't worry about it, okay? It was just a—a _test_ , see? Nothing serious, you know?" He clenches his serviette tightly beneath the table, letting the easy lie tumble from his lips as fast as it comes to him. "Frank and the guys, they made me promise to take someone out, but I didn't think I was ready. So I asked you."

Molly frowns at that. "I don't understand."

He forces a short laugh. "I mean, come on. Look at _me_ , all right. I already know I'm not your type!" _That's_ the obvious truth, and he burns with angry shame at having put himself in a position to prove it.

"My type?" she echoes, lifting her eyebrows.

Even as the words leave his mouth he's already mortified at himself, but the spike of hurt speaks for him: "You know! Exciting, _dangerous_ blokes. Like—like _Sherlock_ , and the creep who wanted to snog you over _cadavers_ , and your mad ex-boyfriend on trial this week for the Crime of the Century— _fuck_ , sorry, I'm sorry; listen, I didn't mean—"

"I think you _did_ ," she says, sharp and wavering, and pushes out her chair to stand. "And I think I should be going, now! Good _night_ , Greg."

He watches her go, numbly, swallowing back the protest he knows won't help; after she's gone he gives in to his self-pity and drains his wineglass in one go.

 _At least she didn't go out the loo window. I wanted to know; now I bloody well know,_ he thinks, and waves the waiter over to call for the check.

 

\-----

 


	5. Handled with Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still, he waits a good while for plausible deniability before texting Sherlock about the kidneys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to [WastingYourGum](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WastingYourGum) for helping me test some logic in this chapter!

  
**5\. Handled with Care**  


.

 

As tempting as it is to make an end to the embarrassing night by diving headfirst into the contents of his home liquor cabinet, Greg knows he doesn't have the luxury of sleeping off a hangover. He hardly has the luxury of sleeping at all, as it turns out. Shortly after his nightly dose of sleeping medication tapers off he finds himself wide awake again, shaking off a distressing dream in which the walls of Nadia's candlelit living room had closed over his head—it's hardly even a surprise when he wakes shivering.

So, rather than wallow idly in his bitter guilt over hurting Molly's feelings, he takes a strategy that's served well enough to mute similar unhappiness in the past. After a shower, a strong coffee, and a long, stern glare at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he goes straight to the office.

It's quiet in his corner of the Homicide floor—it's Frank's turn for the late shift, and thankfully there seems to be a case on somewhere—so there's nobody to remark upon his decision to shut himself in his office and do paperwork at three in the morning.

His phone remains silent on the desk beside him, and his breathing is clear and even; just as with so many long nights in years past, in this office or on his sofa while his cheating wife had slept soundly on her own, Greg loses himself in the scratch of his pen on his notepad and the slow, deep pulling of his lungs.

 _Alive, alive,_ the air seems to say, reassuring, as he lets it stretch his belly and hiss slowly out through his nose. _This is worth it. This is worth being alone. Worth lying, and losing, and hurting—you're fine; he's alive._

He's alive, and so is Greg. And that's what matters.

 

.

 

The slick sound of the door unlatching pulls Greg from his meditative fog; he instinctively schools the surprise from his face as he looks up to see the office fully illuminated by sunlight.

"You're in early this morning," Sally greets him, one brow shooting high beneath the tight curls that fall across her forehead.

He tries to look nonchalant. "Felt like going over some things." He rolls his shoulders to stretch them and suppresses a yawn, checking his watch: not quite eight. "Have they got a new pot of coffee going yet, you think?"

"Yeah, they should have. Come on," she says, nodding and holding the door open for him to step out with her.

On their way to the staff kitchenette, she pauses at her desk. Catching up to him, she nudges his elbow with something in a crinkly plastic wrapper—a cold egg-and-ham croissant.

"What? Sally, you don't have to—"

"I bought two. Go on, I probably would've given it to Evan anyway. Go _on_ , take it."

He takes it, sighing silently at the return of her mothering tendencies. "Right," he says with a shake of his head, "so; this morning I'll need you following up with Phil on the evidence samples from the Goldwin case. If he hasn't got testing finished yet, switch back onto Burnham, you can help Evan with the ledgers—"

"You _weren't_ really here half the night prepping _casework_?"

"Well, yeah! What else would I be doing?" The kitchenette is deserted, for the moment, and he makes a beeline for the coffeepot.

Her heels click-clack on the tile and stop just behind him. "I dunno, worrying yourself sick over this Moriarty thing?"

He very nearly sloshes coffee over the lip of his paper cup. "What?"

"Oh, don't act like I can't _tell_ ," she says, smirking as he steps aside to let her pour her own. "Ever since you went into court on Monday you've been wound too tight! And it's only, what, about halfway through today? You really want this guy to go down, I get that."

"Well, yeah. 'Course I do. You know what he _did_. I didn't think you'd be paying attention to the trial, though, Sally; you're usually focused on the next thing."

"So are you," she points out. "But this one's all over the bloody news. I couldn't block it out if I tried! Besides, it's interesting anyway. How he did it, and all."

They pass a few other officers as they walk back; one of them smiles and exchanges murmured greetings with Sally. He's a tall, clean-shaven young man whose short hair is a bland sort of dishwater blond, and Greg doesn't recognise him. He must be new to the floor.

"Anyway," Sally continues when they've reached his office and are alone again, "I've been meaning to ask you what you think about that. Holmes' 'Master Key Theory', I think they're calling it in the papers."

Moriarty's phone had been examined, of course, and its contents and activity log presented in evidence: one outgoing text to Sherlock, a music player, and a single mysterious application—the programming of which had resisted decryption. As near as anyone could tell, it had been set up for one-time use; spent, it's irretrievable. Sherlock's decisive insight had led to the program being termed "the master key"; although his time on the stand hadn't lasted long enough for him to provide his own explanation, the theory had been accepted and elaborated upon by the prosecution's panel of experts. Greg rolls his eyes a little at the thought that the media's rather sensationalist trial reports have managed to credit Sherlock's idea properly, all the same. "Yeah, what about it?"

"You buy that shit about a computer code? 'Cause I don't."

He gives her a sideways glance. "You think Sherlock _lied_ in his testimony?"

"Not in so many words," she hedges. "Just, I'm wondering if he knows what he's talking about."

"When doesn't he?" he says, somewhat irritably, and it earns him a snort.

With that, they drop the subject and return to their respective desks to settle into the day's work; Greg nibbles at his unexpected breakfast and starts reading through his emails, only half-listening to Sally's voice on the phone with the forensics lab and the slow-building background hum of the bullpen gearing up for another daylight shift.

If it weren't for the simmering undercurrent of shame and his repeated attempts to silently compose the perfect apology over the next two hours, he might almost say it's a pleasant morning—right up until his phone buzzes with three texts in the course of twenty minutes, each bearing worse news than the last.

               No defence! None!!

               Jury's out...I'll keep you  
               posted...

               FUCKING NOT GUILTY.  
               How??? They're letting  
               him just walk away!

 

.

 

First, he gets up and shuts his office door. Sally glances back over her shoulder at him as he does—she's got cat ears, that one—but if she sees something in his expression, she doesn't remark upon it. Word of what's happened will get to her, soon enough, without his help; he twists the pull on the section of his interior blinds that usually hangs open, flipping them to match the always-closed side. It doesn't make the sunlit room the slightest bit darker, though it seems as if it should.

After that, there's a time that blurs and stretches. Seconds, or minutes, or more—it feels like an electrical current beneath his skin, a hissing hum of muddled noise in his ears. His limbs feel weighted, his head jarringly light; _is this shock?_

Still he's breathing, fast and deep, too fast probably, but he doesn't mind the way hyperventilation makes his lips tingle. The air is there; he pulls greedily at it, clutching at its comfort, and gradually he's able to string more than two words together in his thoughts.

He waits to master himself, rubbing a thumb over the dark screen of his mobile again and again until it's hot beneath his touch, until his vision clears. When he dials and raises the phone to his ear at last, his voice is an embarrassing rasp, reedy and dry.

"Greg, is that you?"

"Molly," he tries again.

"I didn't expect to hear from you," she says; it's sharp, and it has every right to be.

The careful words he'd been assembling all morning are gone, now. He scrabbles together what bits of them he can remember, and pushes them out in a jumbled rush. "Please, I'm sorry. It was way out of line—I was stressed and upset and I took it out on you and I'm so _sorry_ , truly—but, listen, Molly—"

"What is it?" Her tone edges into concern for the uncharacteristic wavering in his. "Greg?"

"It's Moriarty," he tells her, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. "The trial's over, they ruled him not guilty; he's just gone free..."

"Really! That's— _not_ good."

"I had to call and tell you, I didn't want you just seeing it on the news. I know," he adds, "you don't think he'd ever want anything more of you, I remember—sorry again, god I'm an arsehole!—but, yeah. I just—you needed to _know_ , Molls."

"Yes," she responds, softly. "Yes, I see."

Greg waits through a loaded pause, then ventures, "If you notice something out of the ordinary, or need anything at all, you can call me whenever—"

"I'm still angry with you," she cuts in, but the way she says it almost sounds like a question.

"I know. I absolutely deserve that; I won't bother you. You'll be careful, though?"

"I promise I will. Thank you, Greg."

Ringing off, he lets out a long, shaky breath and slumps low in his seat.

 

.

 

Despite Greg's certainty that Moriarty's acquittal will mark the start of either a gleeful criminal rampage or immediate vengeance upon Sherlock, the days turn over without obvious incident. He wakes each morning to the dropping sensation in his stomach that tells him _today, something awful will happen today,_ and yet—there's nothing.

The cases that come across his desk all appear to be the usual sort, crimes of passion and personal vendettas and thoughtless mistakes...he combs through them again and again, long after the arrests are made, searching for the slightest hint of something out of place. During divisional briefings he sits sharp-eyed and silent, giving such uncharacteristic attention to the other DIs and their caseloads that they start eyeing him with suspicion.

Phil begins to run extra tests on every evidence batch, forestalling Greg's increasingly predictable requests for more detailed reports. Evan becomes jumpy and anxious, unconvinced that the scrutiny isn't a sign of his own work's inadequacy.

Only Sally seems unfazed by her supervisor's increased vigilance. She shoots an assessing look his way, now and then, but her performance remains as reliable as ever. As well, she makes no discernible effort to curb her offhand sarcasm and disparaging comments.

Greg's thankful for that. He knows he's becoming unreasonably tense, watching a week turn into two, and then three, with no sign of Moriarty anywhere.

She does, however, always seem to have something extra at her desk or in her handbag, which finds its way into Greg's hands with embarrassing regularity: a banana, a protein bar, a packet of crisps. He tries telling her to stop, but she pretends not to hear. Usually he waits until her attention is occupied elsewhere to actually eat any of the offered goods—those moments are becoming easier to come by, though, now that she's begun chatting regularly with that tall, blond officer.

It isn't long before Greg learns the name of the newcomer: Mark Breiter is an addition to Frank Drake's team, transferred into Homicide as a temporary replacement for DS Peter Sanjay. According to Frank, Sanjay had taken a nasty fall from a ladder while performing some home repairs; he'll be out for at least a few months.

Maybe it's just the novelty of a new face around the office, but Greg begins noticing DS Breiter everywhere he turns—and the sergeant apparently notices _him_ , as well.

He says as much to Sally, one day, when she comes to him with some forms to sign. "He keeps _looking_ at me, your new friend."

"Who? Mark? Oh, he's just heard a few too many stories about your sterling case record. Don't begrudge him a little hero worship; the _rest_ of us have long since gotten used to you."

It strikes Greg as more likely to be ambition than any sort of admiration. Something in the man's expression puts him off, a bit. But Sally's right; there's no need to read into it.

He's obviously paranoid enough, as it is.

 

.

 

You were right, turns out;                                
the murder weapon WAS a                                
woodworking tool! Thanks                                
for a great report, Molly.                              

               Oh, you've solved the case  
               then? I'm glad I could help  
               a little. :)

You were a HUGE help.                                
We didn't even have to wait                                
for Sherlock, after all!                              

               Has he mentioned when  
               he'd be back in town? He'd  
               asked me to get him some  
               kidneys, before, is all...

Somehow I find myself                                
not wanting to know what                                
for! But they'll probably                                
be coming back today.                              

               Great. If you see him, just  
               let him know he needs to  
               pick them up, okay? :)

It's been awhile since I've                                
seen you. Fancy a coffee                                
break, maybe, to chat?                              

               Oh...I can't this week. Too  
               busy, sorry! Another time,  
               maybe.

No worries.                                
Thanks again.                              

Greg sets down his mobile with a sigh; she's still not ready to forgive him, then. It's been a month and a half, and he's given her plenty of space, but he's really beginning to miss her company.

"Wonder how much longer I'm in for this," he mutters. "I'm running out of ways to apologise, here..."

"Talking to yourself, Lestrade?" Sherlock strides in through the open doorway of his office, turning and depositing himself into one of the empty seats in a single graceful coat-flaring movement.

John follows behind with his jacket slung over an arm, his bearing as always more circumspect than his flatmate's. "Don't mind him," he says, a touch wearily. It sounds as if it's nowhere near the first apology he's made on Sherlock's behalf today.

Greg can't help breaking into an understanding grin. "Rough morning, John?"

"Once upon a time, I actually _enjoyed_ air travel, if you can believe it."

Sherlock gives a careless sniff and leans across to pluck a case file from the top of the nearest stack. "He's only put out because we were delayed in customs."

"You make it sound as if it wasn't your fault," John retorts, tipping his head towards the ceiling in a yawning stretch over the back of his chair.

"It was hardly my fault the customs officer was carrying on a smuggling scheme under the table—and badly, I might add! I could hardly be expected to walk away without saying something. Ugh, this one is so simple it's _puerile_." Sherlock snaps the folder shut and tosses it back onto the desk.

"Yeah, well it's already closed, too," Greg tells him. There's only one case here he needs Sherlock's eyes on, right now, and that's only to get corrections on the work he's attempted to transcribe in the closing report; by the time Greg had made the final arrest, his consultant was already on a plane out of the country. He passes the correct file across, with a pen. "Smuggling, eh? Nothing connected, though...?"

Sherlock taps the pen against his lips as he skims Greg's paperwork. "If that moron was connected to Moriarty, Jim's standards are _seriously_ slipping! And before you ask, no. The missing Byzantine relics we recovered had no connection, either; not that I expected them to, of course. Either way, it amounted to a fairly diverting puzzle. And anyway, John enjoyed seeing Greece for the first time."

John rolls his eyes and gives Greg a one-sided shrug.

"Well, I'm sure the bishop was grateful for your assistance," says Greg. He hasn't been completely out of the loop—Sherlock's occasional late-night texts have kept him marginally informed, and given him the opportunity to request they visit his office immediately upon their return. Even so, he hasn't exactly felt part of the team, lately. He crosses his arms and hums discontentedly. "I still don't know that I love the idea of you two jetting around on cases, while he's still off the radar somewhere."

"What else do you expect?" asks John. "It's what Sherlock does—what _we_ do! It's been six weeks, with no sign of Moriarty; are we meant to just sit tight indefinitely?"

"No. 'Course not," Greg says, looking over at Sherlock, whose pale eyes have locked onto John. "Just—be careful, yeah?"

There's a pause, then, a heartbeat of loaded silence as Sherlock's gaze snaps back to him abruptly. The sensation of Greg's automatic defences slamming up into place is a tightness in his gut, a tensing in his jaw— _he doesn't know, he mustn't know_ —it's bad enough that Sherlock matter-of-factly diagnosed Greg with ridiculous phobias, just a few months ago. It would be infinitely worse if he were to learn that _he_ had been the cause of every panic attack Greg has ever experienced...

The moment is broken when Sally suddenly pokes her head in at the door, saying, "You need anything else, sir? I'm going to run out and get lunch with Mark."

Greg waves her off. "Nah, go on ahead."

She sends a considering look towards the other two, frowning slightly, then retreats.

Sherlock follows her with his eyes for a few seconds. When he catches Greg's glance, he twitches his brows and reports in a dry, uninterested voice, "Neither romantic nor sexual. Amazingly enough."

"I don't recall asking, Sherlock. Are you finished, there?" The case file is passed back; Greg looks over the few scribbled notations on his drafted report and nods. "All right, that'll do, I suppose. I don't have anything else for you that isn't puerile; go home. Get some rest."

John makes a stifled, high-pitched noise; he knows that last had been directed at him. "I'll try. Though I'm not sure I can rely on Mr On-a-Bloody-Roll here not to go straight on sniffing out every criminal between the Yard and Baker Street, today!"

Sherlock's eye roll is practically audible, but he restrains himself from making any cracks about Greg's personal life as he and John make their way out. That's admirable, in itself; Greg hadn't had the time to tuck his phone away when the pair had barged in. He'd felt its presence like a burning brand beside him through the entire meeting.

 _Oh, come on. Sherlock doesn't give half a shit who I'm texting, long as it's not his brother,_ he reminds himself, smirking at his own overblown instinct towards secrecy.

Still, he waits a good while for plausible deniability before texting Sherlock about the kidneys.

 

\-----

 


	6. Balance Act

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps...not even the intervention of higher powers can truly protect someone from _himself_ , in the end.

  
**6\. Balance Act**  


.

 

It's been about two weeks since Sherlock's trip to Greece, and in that time there hasn't been any call for his help at the Yard; that's not too surprising, given the extra intensity exhibited in DI Lestrade's work of late. There's been an upward spike in his case closings, apparently. It's nothing Greg would think remarkable—actually, he's sure he'd have _lost_ productivity in the past two months, if not for his extra hours—but others in his division have noticed. Recently, when Dimmock visited Greg's office to ask for advice on task delegation, he let slip that a new rumour has begun to spread: DI Strahan is putting it about that Greg is bolstering his stats in preparation to bid for promotion.

It's better than the rumours that his wife had left him because he was gay, but just as patently untrue. Greg can't imagine being satisfied anywhere but where he is.

This Friday morning, he and his team are at work bright and early. Usually, the team discusses their plan of attack for the day in Greg's office, after everyone has had the chance to commune individually with their coffees, and clear their inboxes. This time, however, they happen to have begun talking on their way back from the kitchenette, and they've paused to continue the impromptu meeting in Sally's cubicle. They stand in a loose triangle there, Sally resting her hips on the edge of her desk with the men facing her. Evan has the case file from yesterday afternoon open in his hands.

"Okay. So where are we so far, on getting the hard evidence together to bring in this woman?" Greg asks.

Evan's fingers twiddle agitatedly at the tops of a few pages. "Well, sir, about that—"

There's a brisk rat-a-tat of a knock atop the side wall of the cubicle, and they all turn to see Frank Drake smiling his extra special movie-star smile. "Pardon the interruption, gentlemen— _and lady_ ," he says, with an exaggeratedly smooth nod and wink sent Sally's way that has all three of them trying and failing to hide their immediate amusement. "I've got myself a little problem; are you on a case right now, Inspector?"

Greg slides his eyes pointedly to the open folder in Evan's hands, then back to his friend. "We are, yes..."

"Well, are your hands full?"

"That all depends what you're trying to put in them," he answers drily.

"Fair enough! I pulled a kidnapping case this morning. A brother and sister, both under ten, snatched from a boarding school in Surrey sometime last night; I took all the details and was about to drive out there, but then the kids' father rang in from overseas with a _very_ special request..."

Twitching his mouth to one side, Greg quips, "Lemme guess, he wants someone less ridiculously attractive rescuing his highly impressionable children?"

It gets a quiet snicker from his sergeants, but Frank just grins and shakes his head ruefully. "He wants _Sherlock Holmes_ on the case to find them, says he'll raise hell if I don't make it happen. And Rufus Bruhl's the current ambassador to the US; he's got plenty of connections to do it!"

"Damn. Frank, I'd vouch for you in a heartbeat, but you know he can't stand to work with anyone else," Greg says, ignoring the face he's sure Sally's making beside him. "Unless you're trying to pass me the whole case? Not that I _want_ to steal it from you. We've got this, here—"

"It's fine," Evan pipes up. "I was just about to say, until I comb through all the CCTV footage we were sent over last night, we won't have what we need to move forward on the suspect. I can stay on it all day today and we shouldn't lose any steam, but more eyes aren't going to be all that much of a time saver, here, anyway."

"Yeah, okay, but then I won't have a full team," Greg protests. "If this is serious, I might need you!"

"I can help, sir!" Everyone turns their attention to DS Breiter, realising with some surprise that the young man has apparently been hovering just behind his temporary supervisor's shoulder this whole time. "I'm fully briefed already; I've got driving directions together and everything. I'd be honoured to assist your team, if Inspector Drake is willing to loan me over?"

"It's fine with me," Frank says in response to Greg's questioning look. "Least I can do is lend you a man. I owe you one for this, Greg."

"You do, yeah. We can talk repayment later, okay? Just give me what you've got so far."

 

.

 

Despite the novelty of the arrangement, Sally sticks with Greg rather than going on ahead to Surrey in the other car. It strikes Greg as odd; 221B is by no means her favourite place to visit.

"Would have thought you'd be pleased to have a long ride with your pal Mark," he comments, pulling the car to a stop with the familiar red awning in sight.

"I knew you were going to call the ambassador on your way here. I wanted to hear what he said for myself."

"Hm. Right." That phone call to Mr Bruhl had, for Greg, been an opportunity to calm and reassure the terrified father, and to ask basic questions about his children; Sally, however, had seemed to be listening for something suspicious. She'd pulled sour faces at Bruhl's insistence that Sherlock be involved, and again at his mention of the Reichenbach case which had thrust Sherlock into the public eye. She hadn't even tried to hide her disdain, but at least she'd stayed _quiet_.

The street door to 221B stands open; Greg knocks at the doorframe to draw the landlady's attention as he steps in. Tools and various bits of builders' debris litter the entry hall.

"Mrs Hudson, good morning," he says, when she turns around. "You've met my sergeant, Sally Donovan, I believe?"

Sally pauses politely to greet the landlady, and ends up pulled into a bit of her excited chatter. "Yes, I'm certain I have. Hello, dear! Oh, don't mind the mess. I'm having some new lighting installed, this week! It's always so dim and dreary, back here by my door; it'll be so much nicer, to have light..."

He leaves them talking and continues up the stairs. As he reaches the first floor landing he sees Sherlock up ahead, perched on the edge of the sofa with his knees almost touching the coffee table. Sherlock's violin rests across his lap, and he's hunched slightly over it, fiddling with some delicate adjustment; the unruly curls at the back of his head catch the morning sun, bringing out a seldom-seen auburn spark that calls a vivid image into Greg's mind—the laughing little boy in the sun, exhilarated by his balancing act, heedless of frightened voices in the garden far below.

Greg's heavy tread pauses in the doorway as the memory trembles through him, and registering his presence, Sherlock looks up from his task; in the moment their eyes lock, Greg feels a familiar lurching thump behind his breastbone.

It's a secret he holds tightly, locked away so well that the remembrance of it comes as a distracting surprise every time: Greg loves this.

He enjoys his job, yes; he likes both the variety and the routine of it, the poised, thoughtful waiting and the pressure to action, the grim satisfaction that fills him at the successful close of each case, no matter how small. But he _loves this_...these moments when he can command Sherlock's full attention with a word or a look, when he can bring a tough new problem to Sherlock and watch him receive it like a precious and exciting gift.

"Lestrade," says Sherlock, lifting the violin away from his legs to stand—and the careful way he shapes the name is somehow singular to these times, too.

At the very start of a case, that first _Lestrade_ always sounds like _thank you_ in Greg's ears.

There's a reason Greg works so hard to push this giddy, joyful feeling from his mind, though, and it mostly has to do with the inevitably gruesome nature of the gifts he brings. He has to clamp down on his expression quickly, guiltily, to stop his parted lips turning upwards in a tiny, faint smile to match the one on Sherlock's face.

"I need you on this one," he says, sternly reminding himself to remain sombre: _this is serious. These are kids._

At once eager and focused, Sherlock waves Greg over to open the file; he turns towards the corner to lay his instrument in its case, and then leans in close beside him to peer over his shoulder. When Sally enters the room a few seconds later, he does nothing to acknowledge her presence; she hasn't even had the chance to grumble a sarcastic greeting when the stairs creak again, announcing John's return.

"Sherlock, something weird—what's going on?" John distractedly shoves something into a pocket as his focus shifts to Greg.

"Kidnapping," Sherlock replies at once, stepping around the table to tap at his computer, and Greg takes the cue to begin laying out the details for them both.

Sally injects a fact here and there from the background file she's carrying, but then she sneers over "Reichenbach _Hero_!" as Sherlock walks coolly past them all, and Greg frowns.

"Isn't it nice, working with a _celebrity_ ," he quips, grimly, following his consultant out. With Sally in a snit already, he knows he's got a long, _long_ day ahead of him.

 

.

 

The drive to St Aldate's School ratchets Greg's blood pressure up a few points. Even after his muttered chiding, Sally continues to snipe and grumble under her breath for the first twenty minutes of the trip.

Somehow Sherlock manages to thoroughly ignore her, even though he's chosen the seat directly behind Greg on the driver's side, which places him squarely in the path of the glares she periodically shoots across at him. Greg wonders at this—surely the opposite side would be better, in terms of legroom alone—but then he happens to glance over and catch the edge of the absolutely scathing expression on John's face. Clearly, Sherlock's choice of seat and refusal to speak amounts to the silent prevention of an all-out confrontation in the confines of the fleet car.

By the time they arrive at last, everyone is relieved to get out and turn their focus to the case. Sally heads straight for Mark, crunching across the school's wide gravel drive fast enough that her loose curls bounce; Greg sends up a wordless prayer that she'll let off steam, then get her priorities back in order. As well, he hopes Sherlock will continue to exhibit the outward restraint he's shown so far—it's nothing Greg could get away with actually saying, but he's really feeling quite proud.

Unfortunately, the first thing Sherlock does after being told "Go easy" is terrify and traumatise the poor House Mistress, in the interest of time. And although he doesn't start any fights, while examining the children's rooms, he's not exactly ingratiating himself to anyone, either. Greg ends up on damage control, after John and Sherlock slip away to the Barts lab; Phil is indignant, the school personnel are confused and upset, and Sally hasn't spoken since they got onto the dormitory hall.

"You all right, Donovan?" he asks her, later, once they're alone in the car on the way back to London. He seems to recall something about young children in her family, nieces and nephews, or maybe cousins. Maybe there's something he doesn't know, some unpleasant memory that's set her so on edge. It wouldn't be the first time she's let her personal baggage affect her work.

"Hm? Uh. Yeah," she says, waving a hand vaguely without turning her gaze from the window.

He waits, but she doesn't elaborate.

"We'll find these kids," he tells her. "We will."

 

.

 

It takes hours, each one its own special torture, waiting while Sherlock methodically dissects trace evidence that the Met's forensics lab could hardly have handled. Ambassador Bruhl calls twice more from Washington, and the fax machine in the Homicide bullpen spits out a taunting threat from a blocked number, and still they wait. Greg fills a little of that time sitting in the cool darkness of the video room, watching over Evan's shoulder as endless Tube trains empty and fill, arrive and depart, again and again.

Something feels wrong, and he can't put his finger on it.

But then Sherlock returns, determined and calm, quickly laying out a series of clues and connections that somehow leads to a location, and then there's no more time left for thinking.

They all rush to the site; Mark and Sally burst into the abandoned building ahead of everyone, while Greg tersely directs the others to spread out the search. Within mere minutes a shout goes up, and he heaves a sigh of relief: the children are found!

From the moment she calls out in triumph to the closing of the ambulance doors, Sally doesn't let the kids out of her sight—she'd have had a hard time if she'd tried, anyway, since Claudette refuses to release her hand.

Max, however, is not so lucky. In tense voices, the paramedics echo Sherlock's loud warning of _mercury poisoning_ to each other and their radios, as they strap the unconscious nine-year-old into a gurney. Greg watches them go, helplessly wondering what more they could have done—could they have been faster?

_No. Sherlock played to save time every way he could, and without him we'd have been sunk._

The _wrong_ feeling sharpens.

He doesn't say the name he's thinking, because Sherlock hasn't yet said it—but he's nearly certain that _this_ is the retribution he's been dreading, these past two months.

In the interview room later, when Claudette shocks everyone by screaming in sudden terror, he pulls Sherlock back and hustles him out; it probably looks like he's feeling protective of the _girl_. He tries his best to smooth things over, after, even cracking a joke that falls awkwardly flat. Sherlock is too rattled to acknowledge it, and doesn't respond to Greg's goodbye as he and John leave.

Greg's worry spikes even higher when he finds Sally standing thoughtfully over the evidence, and she expresses her all-too-logical doubts. He breaks off that discussion as quickly as he can and leaves her there to simmer down, and it's a lucky thing—just as he closes the door to his office, his breath comes up short. The ripple slams into him hard and fast, so that he barely has time to process—Sherlock scrabbles at the window of a cab that speeds away, then stands stunned in the road. There's a man nearby, moving in Sherlock's direction, and Greg lunges out to him. The stranger already has the intention to help, surprisingly, but has fears about doing it; it's the work of a split second for Greg to override that hesitation.

He may not understand what's going on, but _here_ , at least, he knows what he's doing, and he does it _skilfully_.

After the ripple, he sits and breathes for a good twenty minutes before calling Sally to his office; with the kids safe, he wants to turn her focus back onto their other case, at least until more evidence is processed at the disused factory. But Sally brings Phil, not Evan, and together, they put the pressure on.

It's not about her usual vitriolic resentment, now. She and Phil have assembled a scarily convincing argument—and they've put Greg in a tough position. There's only so far he can take the defensive stance while keeping his secrets safe. He pushes back as much as he dares, but in the end he has to agree to go to Baker Street and ask Sherlock in for questioning.

It doesn't go well.

"Sherlock—"

"The scream?"

"Yeah."

"Who was it? Donovan? I bet it was Donovan. Am I somehow responsible for the kidnapping? Ah, Moriarty is smart. He planted that doubt in her head: that little nagging sensation. You're going to have to be strong to resist. You can't kill an idea, can you? Not once it's made a home... _there_."

Greg stares back solidly, eyes as impassive as he can make them, not flinching when Sherlock's outstretched finger taps gently at the centre of his brow. He's shouting inside his head— _You're wrong; I don't believe it at all, I fucking know better_ —but he can't risk giving himself away.

"Will you come?" he asks, tasting desperation in the words.

Sherlock refuses; of course he does. Greg can hardly blame him for that, after all.

 

.

 

His subordinates have worked quickly behind his back: when Greg returns to the Yard, there's already a summons from the Chief Superintendent waiting on his phone.

The ride up on the lift is silent, the air thick with tension. When the doors rumble open, Sally and Phil step out ahead of Greg, then pause and turn back with condescending expressions, as if they expect to have to chivvy him along.

It sends a spine-stiffening jolt of outrage through him— _I'm no stubborn, shamed child, following my betters to the headmaster's office!_

Lifting his head, he strides out past them and leads them down the long hall, his pace so tightly measured and controlled that it starts his lower back aching.

He's defended Sherlock's involvement as a consultant before, to various doubtful or sneering officers of DI Bellamy's ilk, and cited what few precedents there were to back him up...but the shameful fact is, he's never really cleared it with his superiors.

In the beginning he'd snuck around the rules, biting his nails, nervously opening back doors and lifting barricade tapes when everyone was looking the other way. Then Ollie had begun to help him arrange for Sherlock's presence, eventually lending legitimacy enough to the proceedings that the other officers and forensic techs wouldn't fuss. Sherlock had become an accepted fixture around the trickiest cases, slowly and surely; any dissent in the ranks tended to quiet quickly, as it became clear how many successful arrests they were making. By the time Sherlock had begun to occasionally make the papers—even then, almost never linked directly with Greg's name—everyone on the Homicide floor knew of him, and gave him their collective acceptance, if fairly uncomfortably. They'd all assumed he had the official stamp of approval, while in the meantime the opportunity to actually _get_ that approval had never quite presented itself—and, well, Sally's and Phil's collective moaning had never made much difference, anyway.

At least, not before this.

 _God. I'm in for it now,_ Greg tells himself. His stomach hurts.

If only it could be DCI Edwards—fair-minded and basically kind, a close friend to Parsons and the rest of the old guard— _he'd_ understand. He'd see that the work Sherlock's done has merit; he'd have enough trust in Greg to look past these ridiculous suspicions!

Chief Superintendent Gerald Atchison, on the other hand, is well-known around the Yard (to those who are willing to speak ill of their superiors) as a hot-headed and shallow man. That's who Sally and Phil have gone to. _That's_ who he has to convince.

His chances of actually doing so are somewhat less than promising.

 

.

 

_"You're a bloody idiot, Lestrade! Now go and fetch him in, right now!"_

Atchison's final words are still echoing in Greg's head as he walks out; this time, he isn't bothering to take the lead. Ahead of him the other two are walking with heads bowed close, and he can practically see the smug satisfaction rolling off them in waves. Sure, the meeting itself could have been worse—so far, Atchison hasn't said anything about a possible official punishment for Greg's transgression. If there is to be any, that's yet to come.

Of course, getting that dressing-down in front of his subordinates hadn't been at all pleasant.

"Are you proud of yourselves?" he asks them, once they've returned to their usual floor. Sally grabs her coat and walks straight on, but Phil throws an answer over his shoulder.

"Well, what if it's not just this case? What if he's done this to us every single _time_?"

If Greg were to say and do what's coming to mind, right now, there most certainly _would_ be an official punishment coming to him. Instead he grits his teeth and lets Phil go on ahead of him, pulling out his mobile and dialling fast.

 _So I have to go along with this,_ he realises as he listens to the line ring. _I have no choice—how can I possibly speak up, now? There's no way I can defend him against all of this without giving away I know more than I should!_ But it'll be okay. If anything, while Sherlock is in custody, it buys Greg time to get a handle on things without worrying for his safety.

"Hello?"

"John," he says, hushed and urgent, glancing guiltily in all directions. "You're still at home? Both of you?"

"Yes—"

"Look, the decision's been made. It's out of my hands."

"The decision," John repeats.

"We're on our way to bring him in. Not just me—Sally, and a bunch of others, and probably armed response too, knowing Atchison! Tell him he's _got_ to cooperate. I'm sorry."

There are a few seconds of loaded silence, and then John says, "Ta for the warning," and abruptly rings off.

Greg finds himself staring at the phone for long moments, trying to imagine the expression that had paired with that clipped, emotionless tone. He'd like to take it as an authentic thanks from the doctor, if not exactly a friendly one, but it's too easy to hear these words coming from the John Watson he knows in secret—the John Watson who carries a gun, who's killed at a moment's notice and fought men nearly twice his size, who so easily conceals an implacable, fiery rage.

What would that John do, if he knew Greg had been inside his head, over and over again?

One thing is certain: Greg isn't looking forward to this, not at all.

 

.

 

It takes all he's got to stand firm and do what he must—it feels like a betrayal on the deepest level, and he can hardly bear how resigned to it Sherlock seems.

But it's John's defiant reaction that nearly breaks his resolve. Greg's throat is tight as he leans in close: "Don't try to interfere, or I shall arrest you, too."

He avoids Mrs Hudson's teary eyes and hurries downstairs, standing well away from where Sherlock waits to be handcuffed and put into a vehicle. He isn't certain how closely he's being watched; if it could harm either of them to be seen speaking together, at this juncture, he doesn't want to risk it.

Yet again, however, Sherlock manages to shock him. Greg hadn't even noticed John being brought down and cuffed, but suddenly an ear-splitting squeal calls everyone's attention; with a shouted demand and a stolen gun to John's head, Sherlock announces his daring escape.

In that moment, all Greg can see is the sheer number of armed officers on the street. Any one of them could become too agitated to hold their fire; one false move could set off a chain reaction. _Fuck, not guns; if I go breathless here there'll be no way in hell to hide it—_ He tries to make himself small, crouching there in the road, half-hiding his face in his hands.

Then Sherlock and John take off running, and all of Baker Street goes mad.

Response officers are screaming out orders to men on foot and running for vehicles; dispatch radios make a continuous urgent jabber on all sides; Greg's thoughts blur into a bright, panicked screech of internal alarms. Ignoring Atchison's shout, he backs away from the centre of the crowded street without quite intending to.

For a few minutes he paces back and forth behind one of the panda cars, trying to get himself under control. He winds up stooped over, with hands braced on his knees.

_How can this be happening? He should've just come quietly, he had to know I'd have looked out for him! I'd do anything for that arsehole, anything, hasn't he figured that out yet?_

"Greg?"

The hailing is gentle, but it still startles him severely; he jerks upright and whirls around to see the man approaching him. "Frank," he wheezes, his heart rabbiting hard in his chest.

"Whoa there, calm down. You're in a bit of a state," Frank says, making a soothing gesture that's somewhat undercut by the way his eyes slide around to make sure there's nobody too close to them.

"Yeah, well, I've got a good bloody reason to be, haven't I!" It occurs to him, at this point, that Frank shouldn't be here. He hadn't been part of the backup for the arrest—had he? The logical answer falls into place, too slowly. "You're looking for him."

"My team was close by already, working a shooting on the street; so, yes, they ordered me to help coordinate the search."

"Not to bring me in, then?"

"Why? You telling me you need bringing in, hm?"

Greg shakes his head, hard. "No. Fucking— _no_ , I wasn't _complicit_." He resumes pacing, unable to keep his feet still. "Anyone who thinks I wanted it to go this way—fuck, _fuck_ ," he tells the pavement firmly.

"All right then. I have to ask you, now; can you tell us anyplace he might be expected to go to ground?"

"I don't know—he likes the British Library, but it's too late for that—uh, there's the Twin Dragon—sometimes, um, he talks to the graffiti artists, down around the South Bank—I, I don't _know_ , Frank! I don't know where he'd go, at a time like this..."

The words choke off in his throat; he can't find the air to inhale. Frank's brows lift in surprised concern before he fades from Greg's view. This time he sees Sherlock and John, still handcuffed, bolting at full speed from an alleyway directly into the path of an oncoming double-decker bus. As before, a bystander he finds nearby is ready and willing to tackle them out of the way; again, Greg senses fear. It's easily explained away, of course—he'd expect no less from anyone jumping in front of a moving vehicle—but he hasn't got time to think much about it, because Frank is right up in his face, thumping him on the back.

"Easy, Greg. Easy now. You're all right, yeah?"

"...Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. Sorry I—I don't know what to tell you."

"Look, I'm on your side, okay? I'm your friend. Always will be. But I'm just saying...you gotta look at all the angles, right? I don't want to see you hurt, Greg; there's a chance he isn't what he seems, and you need to prepare yourself for that."

Anger outweighs his anxiety, all at once. "A chance. A fucking chance! You make it sound like we're just rolling dice, here, Frank! I'm telling you, I _know_ this man. Better than I know myself, some ways. And he is _not_ guilty of this!"

"Will you just listen to yourself! Take a step back and hear what you're saying! You've known this guy, what? Six years, max? I know he was strung out on drugs when you met him, I remember Ollie's stories. And not half an hour ago, you stood in this street and watched him threaten to shoot a hostage _right in front of you_!"

Greg shakes Frank's hands off his shoulders with a furious growl. "I'm going back to the Yard. You need me, call," he bites out, before stalking away.

 

.

 

The manhunt continues through the night; Greg is obligated to participate, and to be seen doing so, but he knows his authority is all but non-existent. The word of his fallen status has spread like wildfire. Other officers are whispering behind their hands, and he can tell they aren't likely to listen to a thing he might be inclined to say.

Coming up on eight o'clock in the morning, he's running on empty. It's his twenty-fourth hour on duty; the beginning of the Bruhl children's case feels like another lifetime. He could easily make his excuses and go home, at this point, but Sherlock is still at large—Greg's long since lost control of the situation, but he knows he can't sleep if it hasn't been resolved.

Caffeinated and sustained by the fizzing remnants of his guilty adrenalin, he's feeling trapped, _watched_ , in his office. Every moment that he spends sitting at his desk, whether or not he's going through the motions of assisting the continued search, is time for accusatory stares to linger. He can _feel_ the eyes on him like a persistent itch. Closing his office blinds seems too much like conceding guilt; instead he grits his teeth and sits under the real or imagined scrutiny, tapping at keys and shuffling through papers in a public performance of serenity, while he rages silently at himself. That's guilt, too, but of a different sort.

 _I should never have let him near a jumpy, traumatised kid..._  
_I should have been watching closer, tightening up the paperwork..._  
_I should have set Sally straight, from the very start..._  
_I should never have started bringing Sherlock in! Damn me for being weak and stupid!_

When he realises the roiling storm of self-blame has him doubting the choices he made over six years ago, he knows he's got to move, and there's only one place he can think of to escape. The decision to leave his mobile phone lying on his desk isn't quite purposeful, but when he notices it's missing—over halfway to his intended destination—it almost seems a relief.

Fewer faces on the sixth floor are familiar. Greg speeds his steps a bit as he passes the closed door to the Art and Antiquities division office. He can't help but imagine Suzanna Bellamy waiting inside, eager to add her own screeching to the complaints against him. Thankfully, DI Berkeley's door is standing partially open; he taps quietly at the doorframe as he pokes his head in.

Ollie holds up a hand and gestures him in silently, rolling his eyes meaningfully towards the phone at his ear. "That's good, I'm glad it did. Hey, I'll have to call you back in a bit, love, Greg's here. Yeah, I will. Love you too." He hangs up, standing to stride towards him, and says, "I was wondering how long it'd be before I saw you. Lauren says hello."

Greg isn't sure what his face is doing as his friend walks straight past and closes the door to the bullpen, then twitches the blinds on the single interior window closed in one quick and outwardly casual move. He clears his throat and cautiously begins, "Look. Ollie. I dunno what you've heard, but the stuff they're saying—"

"Greg, don't worry about convincing _me_. You've got enough trouble." Ollie settles back into his seat, passing an open palm over the thin cap of pale ginger hair he's managed to retain. "I heard they've got a manhunt going on, though. Did he really wallop Atchison?"

" _That_ was Watson, actually," Greg answers as he lowers himself wearily into the offered chair.

"Well, either way, I'm sure it was well-deserved. Atchison's a bloody tosser, you ask me."

It startles a dry cough of a laugh out of him. "Can't say I don't wish I'd been in the room to see it!"

"Pity," agrees Ollie.

There's a beat of silence. When Greg speaks again, staring down at his interlaced fingers, his voice is distressingly small. "He didn't do it. Not any of it."

Ollie nods solemnly. "Still. The papers have to get all the shit they print from _somewhere_ , though, Greg."

"Sorry, what's that?"

"Nobody's brought you a copy of the early edition? Thought someone would have done, by now—I hate to be the one..." Ollie says this as he leans over and reaches under his desk, coming back up with a folded newspaper which he offers across.

He watches in compassionate silence as Greg reads the brutal exposé.

 

.

 

Economic and Specialist Crime is only two floors above Greg's own bullpen, so his habit is to skip the lifts whenever he goes up to socialise. Apparently it's a habit that hasn't gone unnoticed. As he turns the landing and starts down the last flight of stairs, he sees Evan waiting at the bottom for him, looking up earnestly. A few paces behind him, Sally has placed herself at the door to the office floor, her hand resting on the push-bar as if prepared to prevent anyone from pulling it open from the other side.

Greg's steps slow as he registers the strange, uncomfortable expression on her face. She's watching him come down, but she won't meet his eyes.

"Sir," Evan says, and swallows back the rest.

His focus snaps back to the younger man. "Pritchard. What do you need?"

"There's, ah, something—I thought— _we_ thought you should hear, ah, before..."

"Stuttering isn't like you, Evan," he huffs. "Whatever it is, spit it out already, would you? I'm supposed to have a report ready for Edwards in half an hour." _God knows what I'm going to tell him. Surely he already knows I haven't exactly been doing what I ought, on this..._

"It's—Holmes, sir."

Greg flicks his eyes between Evan and Sally, his fast-running thoughts stuttering to an uncertain stop. Sally shuffles her feet on the concrete of the landing, flexes her fingers on the push-bar, and keeps her uneasy stare fixed at the level of Greg's shoulders.

"What," Greg hears himself say. He reaches out for the handrail, still standing two steps above Evan. "What has Sherlock done now."

Sally finally looks down and away: Evan answers simply, "He's died."

"No he hasn't," Greg snaps, sharp and immediate. " _What_?"

"He has, sir, I'm sorry. He jumped from the roof of Barts hospital, half an hour ago. Suicide, sir."

"He—but—he _hasn't_. No..." His reaction is swift and strong. Thankfully, neither sergeant says a word when his knees buckle and he stumbles to sit on the stair, clutching the rail tightly with both hands, heaving great shuddering breaths that don't take him anywhere.

Why was there no ripple? How had he not known?

Did it happen too fast—was it fated by higher powers that he _not_ be there for it?

Had he _used up_ his gift, run through a fixed allotment tallied on some invisible ledger as Sherlock had repeatedly been endangered over his lifetime?

After all these years, _after all this time_ , why could he _not help_?

Perhaps...not even the intervention of higher powers can truly protect someone from _himself_ , in the end.

 

\-----

 


	7. Over and Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Nevermind," Greg manages, turning and striding away as fast as his shaky legs can carry him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to [undun](http://archiveofourown.org/users/undun) for helping me wrap my head around certain aspects of this chapter!

  
**7\. Over and Out**  


.

 

Ninety minutes afterwards, there's still nothing from John, or Mycroft. No emails, no texts; no response to the brief, fumbling messages he'd sent out, be it a confirmation or a dismissal or even just a harried acknowledgement.

It's as if Greg suddenly doesn't exist. As if he means nothing to either of them, now that Sherlock is gone.

_That's true though. Isn't it. They've no need of me._

Out in the bullpen, there's a strained hush that's noticeable even through his closed office door. The outraged, derisive whispers of the early morning have taken on a pitying, hesitant tone; Greg wonders if anyone out there feels shame, at all, or if their restraint is purely in deference to his own pathetic state.

He imagines he can see himself, as if from above; he knows how he looks, slumped over his desk with his face hidden helplessly in his hands. A poor lost fool, powerless, humiliated.

Shattered.

The sound of the door latch filters unnoticed through his miserable thoughts—the voice that startles him a moment later is that of an older man, familiar and not unkind. "You should go home, Lestrade."

Greg rouses himself and looks up at Jonas Edwards, standing before him with hands in his pockets. The Chief Inspector carries the excess weight of decades spent largely behind a desk; his gnomishly round face sports permanently reddened cheeks and slightly rheumy blue eyes.

"Come on, now. It's time to go," Edwards tries again.

"Sorry, I—yes, sir. I know, it's been,"—Greg blinks burning eyes and squints at his watch—"almost twenty-six hours since I came in, hasn't it?"

"It'd be a good reason anyway," the older man says, gently, "but I'm afraid it's more than that, Lestrade. You're on suspension, effective immediately."

"Suspension."

"Temporary. Provisional. There's to be an enquiry, of course, before anything's decided; in the meantime, _surely_ you understand the situation we're in..."

Greg strokes a hand over his eyes, pressing hard until red and yellow sparks flare in his vision. "Yeah," he says. "I understand you've got a problem." _I've got a bigger one._

"The media's all over this. We've got to get it under control, and we _can't_ do that with you on the job. It's only a matter of time before they find out you're connected to these questionable cases. I'm sorry, Lestrade. If it were up to me, you know, I'd handle it differently."

"No, you wouldn't, Chief. That's all right," Greg tells him.

He walks out with lips pressed tight and head held high, thinking _Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock_ in time with the jar of every footfall.

Not a single soul looks him in the eye.

 

.

 

Greg gets home, so dizzy with exhaustion his head seems to float above his shoulders, and immediately collapses on the sofa; despite his lingering shock, he falls into a heavy, deep sleep almost at once. When he stirs at last, the daylight is gone. A faint tinkling of music filters down from the upstairs flat, broken with laughter and applause, and he spends a minute or two fuzzily wondering whether it's a talent programme or a dance competition. Then he casts about for his phone in the dark. A brief groping search turns it up on the floor beneath the coffee table; smacking sleep-sticky lips, he hits the button to light up the time.

Then he remembers, and his heart drops in his chest.

There's one message waiting; he opens it up, hand shaking.

               Regretfully, the news is  
               true. I shall keep you  
               informed as to funerary  
               arrangements. MRH

It's as if a red mist rises before him, and his thumb stabs convulsively at the screen; it's rung twice before he realises what he's done and whips it up to his ear. It rings four more times before a crisp female voice comes on the line.

"I'm sorry, Inspector. Mr Holmes is unavailable, at this time."

"I'll just _bet_ he is. _Regretfully_!"

There's a pause, during which the woman might conceivably be looking to see the text Greg's talking about. Then she says, somewhat coolly, "What had you expected him to say?"

"I—I just—" He sputters, fumbling for words to express his vexation. "It's not a bloody diplomatic deal, is it! It's his _brother_!"

"Yes. Yes, it is," she agrees, and lets that sink in before adding, "He has quite a lot to deal with, at the moment, as I'm sure you understand. Shall I ask him to return your call, Inspector?"

"No," sighs Greg, defeated. "Just...pass on my condolences. Please."

"Certainly. Thank you, Inspector."

 

.

 

Greg takes his medication, and sleeps through half the next day.

Sometime in the evening, he tries texting John. John doesn't respond.

One call and two texts come from Frank. Greg sits in the dark with a glass of whiskey and ignores them all.

A little after daybreak, a text comes from a number that is not Mycroft's. It consists of a date, a time, and the name of a church.

Greg sets a calendar alarm on his phone, takes his medication and goes to sleep.

 

.

 

It's a closed casket.

He supposes that should be no surprise, even had there been a wake before the service; the man had jumped, after all. There's bound to be trauma.

Still, as he and the others in attendance follow the coffin's solemn procession and find places in the nave, he visualises himself slipping close, somehow, and sneaking a peek. Once the ridiculous thought pops into his head, unbidden, it plagues him throughout the welcome and initial prayer. The desire to lift that lid quickly grows so strong it drowns out the words of the vicar, making the blood rush in his ears.

He's so intent upon that polished, dark wood that it startles him to feel a touch on his shoulder. Mycroft's nameless assistant has slipped around to where Greg sits, alone at the outer rightmost edge of the third pew, far from the private grouping of the family and the others scattered about. A sweet waft of lily-scented perfume fills his lungs as she bends to whisper at his ear.

"It seems Dr Watson is unable to stand for a eulogy," she tells him, and he rouses himself enough to notice a hushed commotion in the aisle; John has a hand clamped over his mouth and is stumbling in his haste to escape the service. "Would it be possible for you to say a few brief words?"

"I don't, I mean, I haven't prepared..."

"Please," she says, "it would mean a lot to the family, to hear something from a friend."

"...Oh." Greg doesn't know how to object to that.

He rises awkwardly and walks up to the lectern, keenly aware of his shoes' echoing taps on the flagstone; across the way, the vicar gives him a kindly prompting nod. Twitching his head in answer, he clears his throat and turns to face the gathered mourners without really seeing any of them. His knees feel weak.

"Sh-Sherlock Holmes was—" He falters, and steels himself: _You can do this. Imagine a press conference, or something. Facts._ The words come out slowly, tightly controlled. "Sherlock was a brilliant man. Private, eccentric, and unpredictable. He was...a difficult man to know. But, for those few of us he favoured, it was worth the effort to know him."

His eyes skim briefly over the front pew: Mycroft and his assistant sit isolated from everyone else, with security personnel seated to either side and in the row behind, and though a number of elderly couples are seated near the front, there seems to be no sign of either Myra or William Holmes—perhaps they've been overcome with emotion, like John. Mycroft himself has been so closely guarded from the press lurking about that Greg had yet to see his face, until now. He can barely see his face, as it is, through the blur of moisture he's blinking back.

"He surely could have made a name for himself in chemistry, or languages, or music—but he chose, he chose to solve _crimes_. To help people. To save lives..." His hands clench on the carved wood at either side of the Bible before him. "He convinced me to give him a chance, and—I'll never regret that. No matter what anyone says, I'll...never regret it—"

_Fuck, fuck, you're losing it. Hurry and wrap it up!_

"Because I know, in my heart: this city will be poorer, without him. My life...will be poorer, for the loss...of Sherlock _Holmes_ ," he finishes, his voice breaking into an undignified mess on the last word; ducking his head, he turns away to find the safety of his seat once more.

 

.

 

The funeral had been an obligation, and he'd done what was needed, but afterwards Greg plunges wilfully into the same despairing isolation from which he'd dragged himself to attend it. He loses a handful of nights to drink, and wastes the days in between lying in bed or on his sofa.

He buys a carton of cigarettes and starts smoking to keep his hands busy, lighting one from the end of another. When he drags deep on a second cigarette he feels pleasantly breathless, and it's good—almost like he's going into a ripple, maybe. He stands in the bathroom, staring at the wreckage of his face: the hollows darkening beneath his eyes, the careless, too-long stubble he hasn't the motivation to shave. Nearly half of it is silver. Sometimes he pulls in a shallow lungful of air and holds it as long as he can, clinging to mad hope for a handful of seconds.

But he knows he'll never lose his breath like that again. Stealing his own oxygen is pointless.

Soon enough, he finds he can expect one or another of his friends to contact him every other day. Frank and Ollie seem to have made a rotation of it, taking turns phoning him or stopping by his flat. Ollie has better luck, at first, but Frank is nothing if not persistent. After a week or so, when Greg begins to respond more predictably, they work Drew and Lauren into the mix, slowly working towards drawing him out. The strategy is utterly transparent, but he can't manage more than a dull resentment.

At the very least, he knows he should be thankful for Lauren having convinced him to finally return his mother's and sister's calls. He hadn't expected that the news of a disciplined London copper would get much notice out in Bristol, and certainly not in New York, but apparently Mum has a friend in the City who feeds her any news articles mentioning her son. The conversations are painful, and full of omissions, but all in all they're not as awful as he'd feared.

Greg gets some sympathy from his less-close friends, too, over that first fortnight. It ranges from brief phone messages to considerate greeting cards, and even a small, generic gift basket or two, depending on their understanding of his situation. Some only know that he's lost his job amid a sudden scandal. Others seem to understand he's mourning a loved one, as well. One acquaintance, met years ago at one of Drew's wine parties, actually sends a card implying that she believes his significant other has died; he actually laughs, sharp and surprised, before the laughter turns into something uglier.

But Molly Hooper is conspicuously absent. She isn't reaching out to him, checking up on him, trying to stop him dragging himself under, like the others are. She hasn't contacted him at all.

He doesn't notice, right away, but when he does he understands it. He hopes she's had friends looking out for her, too.

 

.

 

One muggy afternoon, on his way to replenish his dwindling liquor supply, Greg happens to see someone leaning out of a truck cab, pouring a half-empty bottle of water out on the pavement. The puddle sits in the heat, shimmering at the edges, pooling sadly, and he thinks he knows how it feels. Wasted, useless.

A car drives up alongside, just then, blocking his view of the spill and interrupting his morose thoughts. It's a long moment before he realises that it's not passing...and that it's black, with tinted windows.

_Oh, bugger._

He looks down at his faded, saggy jogging clothes and dirty trainers, and sighs; not so long ago, he would have balked at ever leaving the flat looking this way. It's just his luck. He wouldn't have minded being waylaid yesterday evening, when Frank and Drew had made him attend a jazz concert with them. At least then he'd been marginally presentable, if reeking of smoke exactly as he knows he does today.

As he slides in onto the cool leather of the backseat, Mycroft remains facing forwards, seemingly entranced by the scrutiny of his own interlaced fingers. He could be trying to somehow spare Greg the embarrassment of acknowledging his inadequate attire, or he may merely find it too disgusting to look at him directly. Either seems equally likely.

Or, maybe it's got something to do with guilt. Greg recently took the time to re-read that awful article, in the paper's online archive, and there were at least a few factoids in there that could only credibly have come from one source...

Mycroft clears his throat. "Hello, Inspector Lestrade."

"Mr Holmes," he returns, immediately irked by the use of his currently inapplicable title. "What do you want?"

Cool eyes flick his way, briefly, as if taken off-guard by Greg's directness. Greg doesn't care to back down; he's uncomfortable, and it seems fitting that Mycroft be, too.

"I'm here to discuss your current...state of disgrace, in the Met."

"Cheers, I hadn't noticed," Greg says sarcastically. "I'm actually surprised _you_ did!" It's a harsh dig, given that Mycroft's refusal to speak with him in these weeks since the loss has likely been a sign of grief; he feels a rush of satisfaction at the younger man's tiny flinch, but it's tempered immediately by guilt.

"Of course I am well aware of your predicament, and of the meeting scheduled for this Friday. Your general welfare is, after all, of some small concern."

"But why?" he asks baldly, unable to mask his bitter confusion.

Mycroft hums and answers, "Call it...recompense, perhaps. Without your virtuous influence over my brother's life, I believe that his decline, while possibly inevitable, may have come far earlier—and more precipitously."

Greg frowns at the man, and then out the window. The driver is taking them in a looping route around the nearest park; no mysterious destination, today. "I did what I could," he says, his voice a quiet rasp. "It wasn't enough."

"Perhaps not, in the end. But you cannot deny you left an indelible impression upon him. Sherlock would surely think me remiss, were I to neglect my family's obligation."

The sound Greg gives in reply is nothing at all like a chuckle.

"You're unaccustomed to the lack of steady employment," Mycroft says, after a pause, briskly returning to his intended topic. "It's clearly having a detrimental effect on your health."

 _Employment isn't the half of it,_ he thinks. What he says is, "Well, I brought it on myself, didn't I? They had _every right_ to put me out. And if they dig it all up, back to the beginning, I know I don't stand a chance." He shrugs, still staring out the window. "It was good, while it lasted, I suppose. But it's not as if I'm surprised."

"The situation is grim, yes, but not entirely irreparable. If it is your wish that I pursue the matter..." Mycroft leaves the sentence hanging; the muffled purring of the vehicle patiently fills its unused space.

They complete another half circuit of the park, in the time it takes Greg to decide on his answer.

 

.

 

It's been just over one month since the funeral. Greg's got himself together again—at least, enough to appear sane to an outside observer, on the occasions he leaves the quiet safety of his flat.

Now that his temporary suspension has become an officially indefinite one, he doesn't need to worry about that terribly often. Today, however, he's made the decision to reach out, in an uncommon moment of clarity. The journey here hasn't been long enough for him to talk himself out of it, but he gives himself ample opportunity to do so; he stands paralysed on the pavement until the Speedy's owner starts giving him suspicious looks through the café window, spurring him on.

The door at 221B is slow to open to his knock.

"Mrs Hudson," he says, and the rest of the greeting sticks in his throat; she stares up at him for a moment, her eyes watery and blinking, before nodding slowly and stepping back to allow him in.

"I suppose you're not here for anything _official_ ," she mutters, "now are you?"

"No. No, it's not—it's nothing like that." He shuffles into the entry hall, head down, gesturing half-heartedly at his decidedly casual attire: a light windbreaker, a faded black jumper, and a pair of old, paint-spattered jeans he'd worn doing various DIY projects over the years. They're the furthest half-presentable thing he owns from his suits, and he'd grabbed them out of the closet for exactly that reason. "I'd thought I could just see if there was anything..."

A thump echoes from upstairs, and he jolts, twisting his neck to peer towards the sound.

"Well, you can try talking to John," Mrs Hudson says in a conspiratorial but not entirely friendly tone, "but this might not be a good time. He's going away to have a stay with his sister, in Cambridge. I don't blame him, really; he needs to be away from here, awhile, it's been _terrible_ for him since—"

Greg turns back to look at her worriedly as her voice wavers and chokes off. He reaches out and rests a hand on her shoulder, but she bats it away, turning her lips down into a quivering scowl.

"None of this would have happened, if you hadn't brought half the Met here to arrest him!"

The accusation hurts, of course, but he's already levelled far greater condemnations against himself. "I was under direct orders, Mrs Hudson. Please understand, it was the last thing I ever wanted to do."

Her head jerks in a short nod, but her expression doesn't lighten by much.

John starts down the stairs, then, the sound of his clumping steps announcing him. He rounds the corner at the landing, face just visible over the large cardboard box in his arms, and does an abrupt double-take at seeing the unexpected visitor.

"John." Greg pairs the greeting with what he hopes comes off as a solemn, conciliatory nod.

John's brow lowers. "Lestrade," he says, ominously neutral.

Mrs Hudson stands anxiously by for the first few seconds of their staring contest. When John descends the rest of the way to the hall and it's clear that no fistfight is forthcoming, she nods, mumbles something under her breath about butter, and hurries back through the glass-paned door to her flat.

Greg clears his throat, turning to follow John to the street door and open it for him. "So, uh. Mrs Hudson says you're going to your sister's?"

"For a little while. Probably only a few weeks."

He eyes the box dubiously. "Looks like you're packing for a bit more than a casual visit."

"I'm planning ahead," John replies simply. He braces his load against the open door frame, freeing his left hand to reach into his pocket, then fumbles with a key fob until he succeeds at getting an answering chirp from the street outside. "Harry's going to help me look for a new place; I may as well make it easy on myself."

"Seriously? You're leaving Baker Street?"

There's a tiny hire car parked about two doors up from 221B, flashing its lights in welcome. The boot pops open, after a few more determined button presses; John shifts the box back into his arms and steps out. "Mrs Hudson deserves her full asking rent. And tenants who can have a normal _conversation_ with her, without— _well_."

"Have you told her that's what you're planning? I only ask, 'cause she doesn't seem to be aware..." Greg's immediate question brings John to a pause, one foot still on the doorstep.

"I'll tell her when I know the details. No need to bother her," John says, shaking his head and turning away to start towards the car.

When Greg reaches to pull the door closed, he's struck by an image: Frank's face each time he'd been rudely shut out of Greg's flat—he'd kept coming, all the same. "You're— _talking_ to people, aren't you?" he calls out. "Your sister? Mates?"

If there's an answer, Greg doesn't hear it. Undeterred, he tries again. "There must be _somebody_. Isn't there?"

"I don't know what you want me to tell you," John grits out.

There's heavy traffic this time of day, but it's moving at a good clip, and Greg has to raise his voice over the sounds of the street as he follows after the grim doctor. "You don't have to go it alone, that's—that's all I'm saying—John, wait, would you?"

John drops the box into the boot with a thump that bounces the little vehicle on its shocks. "Because _you've_ got it all together, do you? Yeah, you look worse than I do, and that's saying something. But you can save your sage advice, okay, because I know what I need. I've done this before, after all."

"Done what?"

"Moved on. Started over. Learned my lessons."

"And you think hiding from your problems is the way to go?" asks Greg, ignoring the twinge as he realises the hypocrisy in his words. But John needn't know he's refused Mycroft's help...and besides, he hadn't said he'd _never_ accept it, only that he wasn't ready yet. "You've got to let someone in, eventually, you know!"

"I'll thank you to let me decide my _own_ way, Lestrade!"

John's glaring daggers at him as he says it, balanced on his toes at the edge of the kerb with his hands on his hips, and between one second and the next Greg sees a lurch of movement on the road behind him. A bicycle courier has made a misjudgement and lost control of his front wheel, causing a car to swerve around and across the opposing lane with a screech—a white flash of fear bursts behind Greg's eyes, and his arm shoots out without his conscious volition. White-knuckled at the collar of John's jumper, he yanks the man forward. John staggers off-balance just as the car's bonnet swipes into the space he'd occupied; the driver manages to reverse the wheel and regain the driving lane, narrowly missing direct contact with the rear end of the parked hire car.

"Fuck—" John bites off the curse, grabbing reflexively at Greg's wrist as they both stumble, and his head jerks around to watch the car veer on; it drags briefly along the hire car's side with a tooth-jarring scrape of metal. The driver fails to stop, either out of shock or chagrin.

Greg says something, too—his lips move, and _something_ comes out, but he isn't sure what; it's a long, shuddering second before he realises his fingers are still locked around a tight handful of John's clothing. He blinks at them, feeling his pulse pounding loud in his ears, and then forces himself to release his grip.

John licks his lips and speaks again, rubbing a hand at the spot where Greg had pulled his collar tight. "Jesus, you—you, ah. Saved my life, I think; thank you."

The words wash over Greg like a cold wave. He can taste bile at the back of his throat as he takes another abrupt step backwards. His extremities feel numb beneath the receding fizz of adrenalin.

"You all right, Lestrade? You've gone all grey..."

John seems to have set aside his anger, for the moment, in favour of his doctor's manner. Dimly, a part of Greg understands that this is the chance he'd been after; the opportunity to sit down with John, and talk to him about his part in what had happened—to reach out and make a real apology—but he can't bear it. Not after hearing _thanks_.

"F-fine. Nevermind," Greg manages, turning and striding away as fast as his shaky legs can carry him.

 

\-----

 


	8. Unbroken Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "His name was Sherlock Holmes, and he was brilliant."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first scene of this chapter calls back to a scene right at the beginning of [chapter 16 of Saving Graces](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4485511/chapters/11926130) \- check back there, if you find yourself confused. :)

  
**8\. Unbroken Lines**  


.

 

It's Evan Pritchard who sets him in motion, when it happens at last.

Greg is running on autopilot, lost and numb without the comforting tedium of work. Even desk duty would have been a blessing, but they'd had to push him out entirely; _all of your work is in question,_ Atchison had snidely insisted, _every case you've ever run will be under examination._ That was weeks ago, in the official meeting to mark the division between Greg's temporary suspension and his indefinite one. Since then, Greg hasn't set foot in the Yard, to plead his case with a formal or informal appeal; the memory of the apologetic look in DCI Edwards' rheumy eyes, and the tiny shake of his head, had been enough to stop him.

He's wandering through Tesco, on a day that may as well be a Thursday as anything else, when he hears the greeting behind him.

"Sir! Inspector Lestrade, sir!"

He isn't sure if the electric jolt that runs through him is more startlement or embarrased wince—but he manages to keep his hold on the bottle of brown sauce in his hand, and turn in place without looking too idiotic. For a moment, he's completely baffled at the sight of the young man who's hailed him; it takes a mortifying second before he recognises the face.

"Evan?"

"Yeah, I know. I promise, it's really me!" There's no product at _all_ in Evan's brown hair—it's so curly and fluffy that it appears to be bordering on classification as ornamental shrubbery. "My Mum is in town for a few days," Evan explains, smiling and sheepish. "She likes it this way..."

"Well. It's definitely—something." He stares for another beat before a distressing thought occurs to him. "They haven't put you out, too, have they?"

"Oh—no, no. I just had a bit of time off to use. No, they moved me onto Inspector Dimmock's team. It's just temporary, though, I'm sure it won't be much longer 'til you're back on board..."

"I dunno, Evan. I wouldn't count on it, if I were you."

"Hey, don't talk like that, sir! It'll be fine, they'll work it out eventually and bring you back on. I'm sure of it!"

They talk for a minute or two more, but it quickly becomes awkward; Evan is too brightly enthusiastic to be borne for long, and Greg hasn't yet got the hang of socialising. He can still taste his own grief at the back of his tongue, its salty tang colouring every word he speaks. Neither of them wants to talk directly about the situation, unsurprisingly, and the young sergeant seems determined to give the impression that the outlook is totally positive.

Obviously it isn't; Ollie and Frank, at least, have been realistic each time they've spoken to him. Sympathetic as they are, they haven't yet given him any real hope that he'll regain his employment at all—which is as it should be, as far as Greg is concerned.

Apparently his poker face needs serious work, because it's as if Evan can hear these bleak thoughts. "Hey," he says, patting Greg's shoulder in a way he'd never have done before, "I never doubted you, boss!"

But it rings false in Greg's ears—because with all that's happened, how can anyone _not_ doubt, a little? Even _he_ has begun to doubt.

After they make stilted goodbyes, Greg turns away and finishes his shopping as efficiently as possible. He returns home and cooks himself dinner, but the image of Evan's unrestrained hair hovers in his mind long after the encounter; he isn't sure why, beyond the fact that it had looked fairly ridiculous. All through the evening hours, spent slumped on his sofa half-watching a quiz show and then an old _Inspector Morse_ episode, he finds himself coming back to it, replaying short snippets of the conversation in no discernible order.

Hours later, when he's teetering on the edge of a dream, the elusive memory coalesces all at once. A full, steaming cup of coffee, and the passenger seat of a fleet car: the image of Evan in the driver's seat flashes bright, lips moving under floppy curls, and Greg sits bolt upright in the bed with six incongruous words echoing in his sleep-fuzzy head.

_"Girly-Curly Pritchard, they called me."_

He frowns into the darkness, perplexed, licking his lips and swallowing against a strange sort of fluttering feeling across his shoulders and chest.

The next morning, he takes an early train to Leicestershire.

 

.

 

"I'm glad you called ahead this morning," Aunt Flora says when he arrives. She ushers him in to sit on her overstuffed sofa, and offers him a biscuit. "I'd planned to visit the bookshop before my doctor's appointment, but I would have hated for you to show up to an empty house."

"It's all right, I don't mean to stay long; I just didn't want to come through the area without stopping in. Everyone is well, I hope?"

He nods and smiles through a few minutes of family news, shares a quick update on the lives of his sister and niece, and promises to pass greetings on to Mum. Finally, judging the necessary pleasantries covered, he clears his throat and prepares to lie. "I promise that I'll come back and visit properly sometime soon, but today I'm on a mission. I was going through some old things from Mum's attic, and I found something, er, personal, that I think belongs to your brother Theodore, and I believe he'd appreciate my returning it. Would you mind giving me his address?"

It's a gamble, using the return of a mysterious unnamed item as his excuse for seeking out his uncle—but thankfully, his read on Flora's character isn't wrong. Though she's clearly curious, his calculated stammer over the word _personal_ throws her sense of strict propriety into overdrive. She provides the address without asking any awkward questions, gives him a long rose-scented hug, and soon enough he's on his way to the nearest car rental office.

 

.

 

It takes less than half an hour for him to make the drive on to Thrussington. He wonders at the fact that Flora and most of the other cousins he'd met had spoken of Ted as if he lived on the moon; it's not so far, after all. Ted must have worked hard to alienate his family so thoroughly.

This is a smallish town, but not so small as to put everyone in each other's pockets. Greg appraises the area as he drives through, noting the sense of quiet so absent from London. Flora's directions take him towards the outer edge of town to a short dead-end street, its entrance shaded by an impressive willow tree. The handful of houses here are all of differing styles, but nearly all boast high garden walls or tall ornamental plantings to shield them from their neighbours.

Number eighteen on the lane is a cottage-style home, reddish brick with a steeply sloped roof and two wide, ungainly dormers that poke straight out like half-lidded eyes. The front wall is partially faced in white-painted stucco, dingy around the bottom of harshly plain windows.

Greg parks his hire car in the empty drive and steps up past a low, tangled riot of evergreen shrubbery to ring the bell, eyeing the peeling paint on the garage and house doors. He gets the impression that the resident here gets by on the minimum required maintenance.

A long silence follows; at last he hears a bolt slide, and the door cracks open. Even though he expects the resemblance, the sight of Ted Lestrade frowning out at him is distractingly surreal; he's caught speechless in the second he might have made a greeting, but considering the immediate widening of Ted's eyes it doesn't appear he needs to introduce himself, after all.

"I don't take visitors," the older man says gruffly. He moves to shut the door.

"I don't care," Greg fires back, quickly shoving his foot in the way. "We need to talk."

"Move."

"No."

He stares out, indignant, for a handful of tense seconds, and as Greg stares implacably back at him his brow draws low. Finally he growls, "Fine, come in for all the good it'll do you! Stubborn fool!"

Letting out a quiet huff of relief, Greg steps past him through a door held barely wide enough to pass his shoulders.

Ted's small house is cluttered but cozy, a space clearly occupied by only one and rarely seen by outsiders. Dust swirls in streaks of sunlight between heavy, closed curtains with scrolling designs of brown and gold. A globe sits prominently atop a stack of books, beside the closed rolltop desk at the far end of the front room; Greg notices a large and detailed map on another wall, but is led on through a dim, narrow hallway before he can make anything of the sight. The corridor is stacked with books all along one side, some neatly aligned with spines out, others jammed haphazardly into piles and sprouting scraps of notepaper or news clippings.

All in all, the atmosphere is as painfully familiar to Greg as his own features are on the older man ahead of him.

The kitchen is dim and outdated, tiled in dark, waxy yellow ceramic with brownish edges. A shallow nook at one side of the room holds a little table, where a still-steaming cup of tea waits beside a tented book. Ted has to clear a messy stack of newspapers from the second kitchen chair, in order to give his unwanted guest someplace to sit; as he hurriedly puts them aside, piling them on a free area of the worktop, Greg briefly glimpses a foreign language.

"Sit," Ted says, and it's more a command than a polite offer.

"Yes. So, ah. We were never formally introduced; I'm Greg..."

"I know your name," he snaps. "You want to talk about your father, you should ask Flora."

Greg shakes his head; the matter of Paul Lestrade can wait for another day. "No. You know why I've come, don't you?"

"Can't say as I do."

There's a brief quiver of uncertainty in his stomach, but he's come too far to let evasive answers put him off the scent of the truth. "Oh, I think you know exactly why, Uncle," he says, and tugs pointedly at a lock of his own silvered hair. "I got _my_ first grey hair at thirteen; how about you?"

Ted narrows his eyes suspiciously. "You came to blame me for your hair colour?"

"You're not going to make this easy for me, are you?"

"I see no reason whatsoever to make this _easy_ , whatever it is; you're a bloody-minded idiot child, barging into my private home!"

Being called a _child_ brings a sudden, rueful laugh to the surface. "I'm forty-eight. And I'm a DI with the Met." _Or I was,_ adds the dejected voice inside of him, and he shoves it firmly down.

"Fine, well, _I'm_ seventy-four, and it's no crime to keep to myself. So I suggest you get to the point."

Greg nods slowly, sorting through possible strategies. Finally he decides that his best chance to draw his uncle out will be a confession of his own.

_Cards on the table, now. I've come this far, haven't I?_

"Like I said, I was thirteen the first time. Living in Bristol with Mum and my sister. I earned that grey hair stopping a baby boy somewhere in Sussex from choking...and I kept him safe, ever since. He never knew it, but for thirty-four years, I've been stopping lorries, raising alarms, and distracting gunmen..."

The older man's face remains mostly impassive, right up until the last word. "Guns are hard," he says under his breath, with a twitch of his heavy eyebrows, then grimaces at his slip.

"They _are_ ," Greg agrees readily, leaning forwards over the table. "Ever have to deal with more than one at a time?"

Ted sighs, and grudgingly admits, "Twice," crossing his arms over his chest. "Don't _grin_ at me, like that."

"Sorry! Sorry, I know I shouldn't. But I've just never been able to _talk_ about it, I always thought I was alone— _God_! I wish I'd known you then..."

"No, you don't. I'm not a pleasant person to know."

"You really do, though?" Greg can hardly keep his seat for the excitement fizzing through him. "You lose your breath?"

There's a long pause before Ted seems to decide it's not worth refusing to answer. "Started when I was twelve. I was walking little Flora home from the library, and I scared her half to death with it. She cried for an hour; I had to buy her an ice-cream so she'd promise not to tell Mummy and Papa." He hesitates, pulling his eyes from distant memories to look Greg up and down. "You, hm...you want some tea?"

"Yeah, all right. Thanks."

"I've run out of milk, though. My shopping comes on Saturdays." Ted levers himself up from the chair and takes his time with the task, and Greg somehow manages to hold back an avalanche of questions, studying his uncle's back as he fusses with his kettle. Braces clipped over trousers that sag in the rear, buttoned shirt come partially untucked at one side, scuffed felt house-slippers, all in shades of tan and brown—Ted blends into his home like a chameleon, or a piece of shabby furniture, but for the blazing shine of his silver-white hair.

Greg chews on his lip and tries not to picture the back of his own head. It's still so much darker, in comparison.

The old refrigerator's buzzing motor clatters to a stop; a clock ticks loudly around the corner. Finally, Ted shuffles across with the fresh cup and gestures curtly to a sugar bowl half-hidden by a stray scrap of newsprint. As Greg nods and helps himself to a spoonful, Ted sits and studies him as intently as he'd been studied moments before.

"Well then. Looking for insight from a crazy old man? I can't help you. Can't tell you a damn thing you probably don't know better for yourself; you know there's no bloody owner's manual on it!"

"I only want to talk. Is that all right? Maybe—if we compare our experiences, just a bit, we can both benefit from it."

"Camaraderie," Ted grumbles somewhat disparagingly as he picks up his own cup, still just barely steaming. "War stories."

"Curiosity. Come on, you can't tell me you never wondered?"

"Oh, I wondered. Why everyone else got to be free, while I had no choice. Why they could live and love and speak truth, while I hid myself away and worried!"

Greg lets the bitter words sink into silence between them. At last he asks quietly, "Have you been unhappy, then, all this time?"

"No," Ted says, still appraising him with narrowed eyes. "I wouldn't say so. I've built a sort of life for myself; I can appreciate solitude. I've survived." He takes a careful sip, then adds, "And so has she."

" _She_ ," repeats Greg, attention riveted.

"Annika."

"Tell me about her?"

His uncle nods slowly, shifting in his seat. He gathers his thoughts for a long moment before he obliges. "She's always been brave, really. Fearless, as a child; as soon as she was old enough to get into things on her own, she was off and running. Took a while for me to figure out why there were so many walls and fences—not that it stopped Anni, mind you—turned out she was the daughter of a British diplomat. Something like a 'base baby,' I think that's a term I've heard?"

Greg hums around a sip of tea. "So, not in England?"

"No. A number of places, mostly on the African continent; there was a new post every few years. Early on, I had no easy way to tell the nations apart in what little I saw and heard, and _she_ was too young to really care, so I focused my formal studies on languages and geography; that helped me. She was almost twelve when her father was appointed our first ambassador at Algiers. Tense times, there, what with the war barely ended—Anni kept me busy."

Greg pictures a little girl sneaking away from the guarded safety of a diplomatic complex, curiously roaming a city recovering from years of conflict, and has to suppress a shudder. The English countryside had held _quite_ enough danger for his own tastes.

"It was around then, I think, that she decided what she wanted from her life," Ted continues, his voice fond. "Medicine became her passion, and she moved heaven and earth to eventually get the schooling she wanted! But no simple practice, nothing safe and predictable would suit her."

"Of course not," Greg murmurs. "That would've been too easy, right?"

Ted coughs a laugh into his teacup. " _Right_. Annika travelled with Médecins Sans Frontières for years, and when she did finally settle down she chose Colombia, of all places. She runs a rural clinic near Puerto López, and still manages to get herself involved in all manner of things she shouldn't, to this day; she'll be sixty-two this year, and I'm not certain the word 'retirement' is one she knows. Nor 'self-preservation', for that matter."

Greg winds his fingers together on the table, utterly enthralled. "So, did you have to travel, to meet her?"

"What? No! I've never _met_ her."

"God. Really?" Greg remembers his own determination not to seek Sherlock out, of course. But looking back on the last few years, he can't imagine his life _without_ having met him... "Why didn't you ever get close?"

"How could I? Travelling risks exposure, and anyway, none of these war-torn nations were anyplace for a bumbling fool like me. I'd be no use to Anni dead!"

"But...if you never met her, how did you prove to yourself she was _real_? I mean," Greg gestures vaguely and rolls his eyes, "you know, I always _knew_ it was real, but at the same time I knew I could be crazy. Or sick. Until he just—showed up, one night! I didn't plan it, it just happened, but pretty soon after that I knew I couldn't stay away."

Now Ted's features crease into a slight, secretive smile. "Letters."

"Yeah?"

"I found the address for the Embassy in Algiers, shortly after her family relocated there; it was the first time I was certain where to find her. Wrote a charming introduction for myself, asking after a pen friend; I was fairly certain she would be one of the only British children there...if she existed at all. Of course I fudged my own details, a bit," he says, chuckling. "I didn't want her parents knowing I was exactly twice her age at the time!"

"I can see where that _might_ have been a sticking point, yes."

"We've built an intellectual friendship. My horizons of interest are broad, and she has a quick mind; I engage her in discussions on philosophy, and psychology, and science. She tells me stories about her patients, and sometimes about things I've already seen happen. Once in a while we play a game of chess by mail; she's getting better."

"All these years, she's kept a pen friend from when she was twelve," Greg says wonderingly. "That's amazing!"

"But enough about me," Ted demurs, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as the surreal situation seems to hit him anew. "What's yours like?"

Immersing himself in Annika's story has been insulating, but now Greg's own reality slams home, and he feels his face crumple. "Mine—" he chokes on the name and swallows it back, "mine, he—he died. Committed suicide, two months ago, I couldn't— _there wasn't a ripple_!"

"My God." Ted looks at him with a strange mixture of shock and pity. "Is _that_ why you came to find me, Greg? To see if I had advice for you?"

"No. Yes. I don't know. I just, once I figured out it had to be you, I had to see if it was _true_! If I was alone, in what I've been through."

"And where I've lived my life as an isolated scholar, you chose to become an investigator," Ted muses, tapping at his chin with one slightly gnarled finger. "I suppose it makes sense, that you would feel drawn to seek the truth for comfort."

"It's all this big metaphysical mystery, I _know_ you haven't got any more real knowledge than I do. But—you must've wondered. What happens if you fuck up, if you fail. And now I _have_ , so..." He shrugs, wiping his wet eyes with finger and thumb. "What do you think happens, now? Am I just—useless, forever?"

Ted sits back in his seat, scrubbing a hand through his pale hair. Eventually he says, "Hard to say. _Could_ be the end of it, sure. But...maybe you stay chosen, if you're still young and healthy enough. Maybe it just...starts over."

He says it as if it's supposed to be a comfort, but the very idea makes Greg's skin prickle. "What—like, another _baby_? Just get back on the horse and try it all again? Christ! I'd lose my mind!"

"Hey, I never said I know what I'm talking about," Ted protests, grimacing a little. "And there's no sense worrying over it, is there? What's done is done; what lies ahead is out of your reach."

Greg tries to find a response to that, but suddenly his throat is far too tight. As much as he now knows he has in common with Ted, his uncle is still a stranger; the thought of breaking down in front of him sets a panicked flutter in Greg's stomach.

Ted murmurs into the awkward silence, "I'm sure you did your best for him," and that's all Greg can take.

"I have to go," he blurts out. "Sorry. _Thank_ you, for—but I, I have to go now..."

Ted doesn't question it, or try to soothe his sudden upset; he merely follows him to the door. Before Greg steps out, though, he stops him with a strong hand on his shoulder.

"You never told me his name, your one," says Ted. "There's nothing I can do to make it easier for you, I know, but...well. I could help keep his memory. Send a thought up above for him, when next I see my Annika..." A pained expression shadows his face, as if he's trying not to think about the danger his seeing her would mean.

Greg swallows hard, smiles weakly and answers: "His name was Sherlock Holmes, and he was brilliant."

 

\-----

 


	9. The Big Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Come _here_ ," she says, with a hiccuping sob, and hugs him tight for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I make a few assumptions, and take very minor license with physical reality, here and there in this chapter. But this should come as no surprise, given my subject matter. :)

  
**9\. The Big Deal**  


.

 

When the shuddering bounce of landing gear meeting the runway shakes Greg's seat, it's a blessed relief. The uneventful flight has felt twice as long as any in his memory; his stiff muscles are screaming at him to move, and he's itching for a smoke. Still, he lets most of the plane's passengers drag their bulky items down from the overhead bins, activate phones in an explosion of chatter, and make their uncoordinated exits before hauling himself to his feet and shuffling out.

Corrie had assured him that someone would be waiting when he arrived, but at last word it hadn't been clear who would get that honour. Greg scans the milling crowd for any familiar faces; as he moves out into a relatively clear area he looks over a group of giggling twenty-something girls, a broad-shouldered man in a tie and an anxious-looking elderly couple, dismissing them all and turning to search for another knot of people.

"Uncle Greg," the man calls out, stepping carefully around a mirthfully oblivious girl.

He doesn't bother trying to hide the double-take. "Michael? Is that you, lad?"

"Mike," his nephew corrects, grinning. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"It certainly has!" Greg grips Mike's upper arms and tilts himself away from the back-slapping hug to look him up and down. "Right; _when_ , exactly, did you turn into a bodybuilder?"

"Exercise helps me think. I study better; the endorphins, you know. Guess starting law school got me a little carried away..."

"Why worry about studying to approach the bench, eh?" He settles the strap of his carry-on satchel onto his shoulder. "Looks like pretty soon you'll be able to _bench_ the bench."

Mike laughs, a deep sound as unfamiliar as his no-longer-teenaged face; together they move on towards the baggage claims.

 

.

 

Greg's agreed to stay for four full weeks, nearly the full month of October. He'd argued against it, of course—he doesn't want to be a burden, he's used to living alone, he's sure to be a horrid guest and he's been smoking like a chimney besides—but his lack of a job had tipped the scales in Corrie's favour. She wants the opportunity to take care of him, like a proper big sister. He appreciates that, but he can't help feeling like he's on his way into an ordeal.

It's about an hour's drive from Newark International Airport to the pretty town of Larchmont, New York, but that's nothing to Mike; he's been on the road for five hours already, driving in from Buffalo to spend his midterm break with the family. It doesn't take long before the general pleasantries sputter into thoughtful silence, as Greg stares out into the dark on the wrong side of the car and tries not to think.

Unruffled, Mike puts on Tori Amos and leaves him to it.

They arrive at last to a late family dinner that, paradoxically, manages to be both heartwarming and intensely awkward. As much as Greg wants to be alone to nurse his hurts, it's nice to be with family; he hopes that after a few days his presence will become less remarkable. He'd like to allow himself to sink quietly into the unaccustomed comfort of this warm and spacious home.

Pat's done well for his family, here. The international transfer he'd been hoping for, all those years ago, had fallen through; he'd been offered a promotion in Manhattan, instead. Greg can't blame him for taking it. Here in this tidy waterfront town, they seem to have everything they require for a good life, and the kids have clearly been happy.

After dinner, Pat and Mike put the game on in the basement den. Greg has never been much of a fan of American football, and after this many years his brother-in-law has cheerfully given up trying to get him interested. He retreats to the quiet front room with a drink, instead, sinking into a generously stuffed recliner there with a sigh. Corrie has already refused his offer to help with the dishes; he closes his eyes and listens to the soft sounds of water and clacking silverware two rooms away, and the occasional muffled sounds of the men downstairs.

After a minute or two, some tiny sound closer at hand draws his eyes open. Gaby is leaning against the doorway, watching him. Her arms are crossed, and she's chewing absently on her lower lip.

"Gaby. What's on your mind?" he asks, motioning her over.

She curls into the corner of the sofa, an arm's reach from him, but doesn't talk right away. "Mom told me I'm not supposed to ask," she says eventually, her voice soft as if she's afraid to be overheard.

He can't help a little smile. "Go on, then. Ask me."

"Did you really get fired?"

"Sort of. It might only be temporary, though." He hadn't wanted Mycroft to intervene before he'd let things at the Yard take their course. He's still not sure whether he'll ever want that manipulation made on his behalf, even now.

"What did you do?"

"Well...I asked a very smart friend of mine to help me solve some really tough cases, over the last few years. But he wasn't a cop, so I got into trouble. That's the simple answer."

She frowns. "But the cases got _solved_ , right? So what's the _not_ -so-simple answer?"

He takes a drink and considers this. "Something happened—my friend was framed, to make it look like he'd committed the crime. To make it look like _all_ of those cases, everything he'd helped me with, he'd set up himself to take credit for solving them."

"Wow, that really sucks."

"Yeah. Yeah, it really does." His voice cracks, just a little; perhaps wisely, she doesn't ask him anything more.

 

.

 

Greg lies on his back in the spare bedroom, listening to the creak of wind in the trees, restlessly tracing his eyes along the shadowy outlines of fan blades on the ceiling, dark on dark. He's not sure what woke him—a passing car, or a cough from down the hall—but it doesn't matter. As far as his body is concerned, it's almost eleven o'clock in the morning, and it's been weeks since he weaned himself from sleeping all day long in mute protest against reality.

He intends to wait until a decent hour to begin moving about; soon, though, other needs become apparent.

Dressing without light, he pads softly downstairs to the bathroom farthest from his sleeping family, then dons his coat and slips out to the back patio, where his sister has disapprovingly set out an old coffee can for him. She'd convinced him to quit again, the last time he'd visited here with cigarettes in his pocket. This time, he has no plans to allow that discussion.

There's little enough left in his life to enjoy, as it is.

Back inside, he fixes himself cold cereal and a mug of tea. Hints of the oncoming sunrise begin to make themselves known, slowly and surely. Greg is still sitting in the dim, silent kitchen at ten minutes to seven, when Mike appears from upstairs, dressed in a brightly coloured tracksuit.

"Oh, cool, you're up early."

"Yeah, jetlag will do that," Greg says. "Going out?"

"Gonna have a run. You can come, if you want?"

"Hmm..."

"Don't worry; I'll take it easy on you, old man!"

He scoffs at the teasing tone. "Give me a minute, I'll get changed."

By the time he steps outside, everything is lit in the expectant pinkish-grey of the new day. Greg joins Mike at the end of the stair-stepped front walk, turning to look over the house as they jog away from it. Some of the houses on this street seem truly ludicrous in size; by comparison, Pat and Corrie's is modest, but it's still far larger than his childhood home. It's a pretty place, a mix of brick and stone with steeply sloped gables that chase each other like calligraphic swashes, and crisp white mullions in all the windows. The front yard is a generous slope beside a driveway wide enough for two parked cars with room to spare, and the entire property is framed by magnificent trees, blazing in their autumn finery even in the early light.

It's chilly enough this Sunday morning that their breath billows out in clouds, and aside from a few dog-walkers, they encounter no one. At first they banter a bit, but it feels forced; neither of them minds when they fall into silence. Greg isn't exactly out of shape, but he hasn't run for the sake of running in a long time. Mike has set a gentle pace, however, exactly as he'd promised.

_He's probably afraid I'm going to keel over,_ Greg thinks. _This damned hair makes me look ancient..._

He speeds up, unwilling to concede the fact of his age. Mike responds to the wordless urging, and soon they're pounding along the quiet streets at a good clip.

_"Did you really get fired?"_ —the words replay in his head, unbidden, followed by those of another relative— _"I'm sure you did your best for him..."_

What had begun as a light competition suddenly becomes about his shaky sense of self-worth, or maybe a need for punishment—he forgets his nephew, pushing himself harder, faster, as grim and determined as if he's chasing down a suspect.

Sweat runs down his neck and chills the loose cotton over his chest. The burn in his thighs, the strain in his lungs, it feels _right_ —a hurt to match the one he hides.

He sprints around a corner and into a dead-end street, fetching up abruptly at a low stone wall overlooking the cove; it's not until his legs stop moving that the effort catches up to him, and suddenly he's red-faced and coughing, bracing his hands on his thighs.

"Smoking's not good for you, Uncle Greg," Mike comments, throwing a leg up onto the wall to stretch.

"Yeah, bugger off," he pants. After a moment he turns to sit, flexing his calves out in front of him in a half-hearted stretch of his own.

The rising sun glints peach and amber over the water. Little sailing crafts dotting the cove punch shadowed holes in the reflected light. Gulping air, Greg keeps staring even after his eyes fill with tears.

"All right, but seriously," Mike says after a moment, still breathing hard, "you okay? The way you just took off..."

Greg's hands close on nothing. "He's _dead_ ," he murmurs hoarsely, and the shadows smear together.

 

.

 

By the middle of the second week, Greg has already become a fixture around the house. He helps Corrie with assorted chores, and listens to Pat telling rambling stories about the office over cold bottles of beer. Even after his nephew returns to Buffalo, he continues to jog nearly every morning, for something to do; he dutifully watches every film Gaby chooses in the evenings, and helps her design new and increasingly strange sandwiches, and commiserates with her over her pre-calculus assignments.

As long as he doesn't stop to think too deeply, he's having a fine holiday. And with the fifteen-year-old whirlwind that is Gabriela continually devising new uses for his time, he finds he isn't actually thinking all that much.

He still wakes at night, though, grasping blindly for his phone on the bedside table as if he could possibly find a reassuring midnight text.

Out back, his coffee can is already nearly full, not even halfway through his stay.

 

.

 

The family has planned a special Saturday trip into the city. To make a real event of the day, they've all dressed well; Greg doesn't feel all that special in a suit that he's worn to work hundreds of times, but it's the thought that counts. They walk together and admire the fall foliage in sunny Central Park, munching roasted almonds. Leading the way with an almost ceremonial excitement, Gaby shows Greg a particularly important spot: the exact bench, beneath the arching canopy of a magnificent willow tree overlooking the calm waters of the Harlem Meer, where Pat had proposed to Corrie over twenty-eight years ago.

It's nice, standing back to watch his sister share a quiet moment with her husband there. After all this time, they're still in love; it warms him to see it, even as he cradles his own battered, jumbled heartache close.

They enjoy lunch near the park, then continue southwards towards Times Square; the plan is to explore Madame Tussaud's for a few hours, before showtime at the theatre just across the street. Of the four of them, Pat and Gaby seem most interested in the show. Greg and Corrie are merely along for the experience, both mildly amused and vaguely horrified at the very idea of a Broadway musical based on a comic book hero. But even if it's bad, they agree it should be memorable.

As they stroll down the street, Greg hangs back from the others a bit in order to have a smoke. Up in front of him, Gaby is pulling on her mother's arm and pointing out various architectural details visible on the upper storeys of the older buildings they pass; he follows just far enough behind that he can't hear their words. His eyes follow her gestures, noting carved cornices and decorative brickwork with mild interest, but his attention is drawn again and again to the features at ground level: the narrow alcoves and alleyways here and there between the closely spaced structures, the deep pockets around darkened doorways, the wide sheltering pillars...the potential hiding places.

It's ingrained habit, pure and simple. When he realises he's doing it—automatically plotting imagined courses of escape around the knots of pedestrian traffic, holding the memory of each path at the back of his mind until it can be replaced—he scowls and curses himself.

_I'm done with that, now. I don't need a bloody contingency plan, anymore, do I!_

Crushing the stub of his cigarette beneath his foot, he hurries closer to the others; he goes so far as to casually link arms with his sister, and he stays that way for the rest of the walk.

 

.

 

The wax museum is only moderately crowded this afternoon; Greg's little group spreads out a bit, each moving at their own pace.

Seeing the famously lifelike figures up close is just as creepy as he'd expected it to be; he's reminded uncomfortably of posed corpses, and after moving on from the frankly disturbing Beatles display, he feels the need for a break. When the maze of the exhibit halls opens out into a detailed facsimile of a sun-kissed Italian piazza, dotted about with various motionless celebrities, he hangs back and watches the milling crowd from a distance.

He's not feeling all that well, truthfully. Maybe he's been on his feet too much today; maybe all those early morning runs have him catching a chill. It feels like he has a cough coming on; he turns politely away from a passing mother and child, stepping closer still to the scenic wall as he reaches for the plastic-wrapped pocket tissues Corrie had given him.

But instead of a tickling cough, the air evaporates from his lungs entirely—his eyes shoot wide, and his blood runs cold.

_Maybe you stay chosen,_ Ted had told him. _Maybe it just starts over..._

_Oh, God. No._

Greg ducks aside, lunging towards one of the false exits built into the scenery. Thankfully, this one is a closet-sized stub of a hallway, an alcove of textured plaster brickwork behind a pretty arched opening; he sees a panel of some kind, and a stool that sits empty, presumably a place where an employee might briefly rest.

That's all he registers of his hiding spot, before a wave of darkness washes over his view.

_Oh, please, not a baby. I can't, God, please—!_

Moving light and sound assaults his senses: the brash noise of a city centre, somehow distinguishably different from the clamorous New York streets he's just experienced. Massive, bushy palm trees run in manicured, single-file lines on either side of a narrow street; ahead, a wide expanse of asphalt stretches before him, with at least eight lanes of sporadic nighttime traffic crossing his view.

_Palm trees?_ Greg looks up towards a vast night sky, running his eyes over unfamiliar neon-edged towers in a sparse, wide skyline. None of this is recognisable in the slightest.

There's no baby. Instead his view has centred upon a bearded man approaching the crosswalk; seen from behind, he slouches in an uneven gait, his short hair plastered against his head. A tunic-length plaid shirt and shapeless trousers hang off him, little different than the clothing of a few other pedestrians Greg can see in the near distance.

_It's not—_ Heart in his throat, Greg twists to get ahead of the man and see his face. _It is. Sherlock!_

Shock stops him in place, staring dumbfounded at the street as Sherlock limps on past him.

_Fuck, I—how?—but if that's Sherlock, then—_

One of the approaching cars is slowing. There's someone sticking his head and a weapon out of the right-hand window; galvanised by sudden fearful certainty, Greg shoots across to the cab of a boxy lorry in the other lane. In the next second, that driver cuts his wheel over. With a squeal of brakes and a crunch of metal, the danger is averted; Sherlock glances just once over his shoulder at the accident, before slipping away in a group crossing before a large fountain.

Then breath returns with the sensation of faux brick beneath Greg's fingers, and the city's colours evaporate into his own fragmented shadow under the museum lights.

He quickly checks around to make sure he's drawn no unwelcome attention by ducking out of sight; once he's sure he's safe, he scrubs shaking hands over his face, overwhelmed. The sensation of re-adjustment, this prickling rush of relief and dissipating adrenalin that makes his blood seem to sing from head to toe as he draws in deep, steadying pulls of air—he'd _lost_ this.

He'd lost so _much_...and yet...

_Damned if I don't get another chance, after all._

"That arsehole," he whispers to the wall, biting back an absurd, euphoric giggle as certainty settles warm in his heart, "he's bloody well alive!"

The rest of the evening goes by in a blur, waxworks and dinner and the ridiculous Spider-Man musical and everything else.

Greg isn't sure that he stops smiling for even a minute of it.

 

.

 

Another two weeks fly by; all too soon it's the twenty-ninth, his last day in Larchmont. Greg has mixed feelings about leaving. It's become increasingly difficult to present an outward appearance of level-headedness, while his new awareness is eating away at him. He's refused to risk writing anything down yet, knowing his clean-freak sister or nosy niece might run across it, and he knows that he will certainly need to sort through his mental baggage before much longer, but the company of his family has provided a pleasant distraction from the thoughts he's forcing himself to avoid. Tonight, he's got some careful packing ahead of him—it seems he's acquired more new clothing under Corrie's nurturing wing than he'd thought—but for now, he just wants one last peaceful, relaxing evening in with the girls.

It doesn't seem like peace and quiet is in the cards, though. He hadn't expected this commotion. Or, well, he _had_ , but the calendar had led him to presume it would happen after he was safely home.

"I just don't get it. It's not even Hallowe'en yet," he grumbles, peering between the curtains at the growing numbers of loud, boisterous children on the street. "Hell, it's not even _dark_!"

Gaby giggles from behind him. "You say it funny. Do it again."

"What, Hallowe'en? Hush, you." He shoves affectionately at her arm as she sets a massive bowl of sweets on the table beside the door. "I notice _you_ haven't got a costume on."

"I'm _fifteen_ ," she tells him archly. "Geez."

Corrie brings out two steaming mugs from the kitchen, their aroma rich with cinnamon and tart apple. "You'll be glad she's staying in," she says, handing him one. "It means you and I don't have to man the door."

As if on cue, the bell rings. Winking, Gaby steps past him to welcome the first of the evening's visitors. The bigger boy wears a shiny red fireman's coat that crinkles when he moves; the smaller one, a dark-haired tyke of about five, is made up to look like he's got an axe stuck half through his skull. The red make-up dribbled through his messy curls and across his face isn't even close to realistic. Nevertheless, Greg's smile wavers a little as they dig into the bowl for their treats.

Gaby compliments them on their costumes before sending them off, and she hasn't got the door half closed before another group of kids has clattered and stomped up onto the porch, squealing and chattering; he retreats to the far end of the front room, turning to meet Corrie's amused expression.

"You always did have problems dealing with the little ones," she observes, sipping at her cider.

He cradles his own mug in front of his lips and breathes deep. "Not cut out for it. Never was," he says.

"I daresay it's lucky for you that Nadia never had her way, then. She always used to tell me how she envied me."

Grimacing, Greg lets that comment fall flat. He sits down and drinks, eyes fixed on an empty spot of wall; after a moment the sofa dips beside him.

"Sorry, love," Corrie says quietly. "I've gone and put my foot in it, again."

"No—don't mind me, Cor. It's fine." His lost baby is just one of the stack of secrets he's keeping; he refuses to burden his sister with it. "Hell, I'm certain I _am_ lucky. Considering how it all turned out."

He's spent so much of the last few years at odds with her opinion of Dia, it's no wonder she doesn't seem to expect this answer. "Well. I can't say I wouldn't have adored being an auntie, but I'm proud of you for moving on."

"Hmm, yeah..." Another sip warms his throat. "This is good."

"Hey Mom," Gaby calls over her shoulder, still busy with the trick-or-treaters, "can I have some, too? I changed my mind, it smells too yummy!"

"All right. Just a minute." Corrie stands and beckons Greg to follow. Once they're out of earshot she says, "I can make ours even better, if you like..."

He grins at her mischievous gesture and relinquishes his mug; by the time he comes back from delivering Gaby's cider, Corrie is replacing the cap on a bottle of brandy.

"Here. _Much_ better."

"Oh! Naughty, aren't we!"

They clink a silent toast, settling onto stools at the kitchen island, and let out matching tiny sighs as the first sips of heated liquor go down.

"Thanks, Corrie," he says after a time. "I don't know how you've put up with me and my moods for a whole month. You've been a saint."

"Oh, you haven't been _nearly_ as trying as you think! I'm just happy that the change of scenery has done you good. You really seem to have caught your balance, here."

"I suppose I have," he agrees, hiding a wry smile in his cup.

"And, love, you know it's still not too late to transfer your ticket; I'd be happy to have you stay with us longer, if you needed..."

"No, no, I couldn't stand to impose. You and Pat have been too kind, as it is! And with my flat sitting empty—no, I have to go."

She nods, leaning towards him and searching his eyes intently. "I was so worried for you when you told us about your suspension; you never _have_ explained what happened! You do know I'm always here for you, don't you Greg?"

"I do, yeah. I know I haven't given you the whole story—but it's complicated, and it's not just about me. I'm sorry. But I'm doing better, now. Everything will be okay for me, I promise."

"I can't tell you how glad I am to see you smiling again, just lately. Oh, sweetheart, I'm going to _miss_ you so! Come _here_ ," she says, with a hiccuping sob, and hugs him tight for a long time.

 

\-----

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks to the amazing [Camillo1978](http://camillo1978.tumblr.com) for creating the fantastic artwork that pairs with this chapter!


	10. Evidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her abrupt, surprised giggle warms him more than Cleo's coffee ever could.

  
**10\. Evidence**  


.

 

To say there's an adjustment to be made is an understatement.

While Greg had been with his family, he'd tried to restrict his focus to the relief of it: the heart-deep reassurance that Sherlock had _not_ committed suicide, that he was _out there_ somewhere, _alive_. The rest—the logic, the questions, and everything else—could wait. They _had_ to wait.

Even so, these past two weeks have been a dizzy jumble of emotions, sparking and curling along his nerve endings at the slightest provocation. It had taken him a couple days to get that somewhat under control, actually; less than twenty-four hours after Madame Tussaud's, he'd demonstrated an alarming ability to go from manic grinning to snappishness to barely-averted tears and back around to laughter, and the other three around the dinner table clearly hadn't been sure what to make of it.

At some point during the long flight back to London, he tentatively relaxes the tight hold he's been keeping on himself. Only a little, of course; still and quiet in his seat, with a handful of cocktail napkins clutched in one hand and an untouched gin and tonic on his tray, the safety belt cinched tight across his lap even though the sign hasn't been lit in two hours, he closes his eyes and cracks the floodgates.

_God. God, Sherlock._

He'd been in mourning less than three months, but the process of rewriting his mental landscape around this new knowledge has proven difficult. It's surprisingly painful to let go of his grief, bit by bit. For every positive thought that flashes through his mind, there's a darker shadow not far behind.

_How could you have done such a thing?_

Now that Greg knows the truth, his instinct is to discount the idea that Sherlock had been so ashamed as to take such an extreme escape rather than be thought a fraud. It must have been an incredible effort, creating a convincing illusion of suicide. If it had truly come down to _that_ level of personal despair, wouldn't the genuine act have seemed the more logical choice?

_You made us all believe it. You wanted us to think you dead, Sherlock! Why?_

There must be a reason. But Greg can't see it, not yet; nothing he can imagine justifies the pain he's felt, nor the pain of the others who'd cared about Sherlock...

_Oh, John. Fuck, and I can't tell him!_

Anything that could motivate Sherlock to abandon all vanity for the sake of disguise must be serious. Even were there a way around the incomprehensible fact of the gift, Greg could never bring himself to endanger Sherlock by telling what he knows.

_And what if you don't want anyone to know, at all? Could you have actually been trying to escape us—John—to get yourself away from all these attachments, this messy caring rot you were always on about despising?_

Surely that's a ridiculous idea. For all his talk about the uselessness of sentiment, it's obvious to Greg that Sherlock had cared. About Mrs Hudson: his violent, uncompromising defence of her safety. About John: his brutal self-blame after the pool incident, the soft looks he surely thought he'd hidden. Hell, even about _Greg_ , perhaps—all those mystifying acts of hurtful charity, and insults disguising compliments...

_I know there was something in it, when you used to call me clumsy—_

The thought cuts off as he suddenly becomes aware of a sound, something like a laugh and a whimper combined. Greg pops his eyes open and swivels his head around to the businessman next to him, only to see that man looking warily in _his_ direction.

"Are you okay, there?" asks the man, in a thick New England accent.

"...Yeah, sorry," Greg answers, his throat tight. He reaches for his drink and turns to stare out at the clouds.

 

.

 

Back at his flat, he sets almost immediately to figuring out the ripple. The memory of it is so vivid, he need only close his eyes to relive it.

There's a blank notebook lying around, somewhere. He remembers Gaby's eager smile as he'd unwrapped the gift, on a Christmas visit nearly two years ago. It turns up at last at the bottom of a drawer: a fat leather-bound journal, with creamy lined pages and a bright blue ribbon marker. A little more rummaging nets him a pencil, and he sits down at the table with a cup of coffee to write out everything he'd seen. The city lights, the cars, the fountain, everything down to Sherlock's expression as he'd slipped away, it all goes down in scrawled lists and quick, shaky line drawings.

 _It happened in the afternoon, not even five o'clock in New York; the sun was still up. But wherever he was, it was fully dark._ He scribbles a note ruling out any time zone that would have had even a hint of twilight at that hour.

Next he thinks about the likely climate, sorting through the visual clues. The only vegetation he'd seen had been those fat palms. Sherlock hadn't looked at all uncomfortable in his light shirtsleeves, and Greg knows he's detested even mildly chilly weather ever since his stay in Florida some years past. _Decidedly warm, even in the middle of the night,_ he decides.

The next order of business is the skyline. Many of the buildings he'd seen had struck him as odd—not exactly memorably strange, but with a stylistic flavour he isn't familiar with. Two of the nearest ones, in particular, had stood out like bookends at either side of the wide city plaza; he sketches their features, scratches them out, tries again.

 _No, not that way. Like a massive golf ball, but impaled on a spike running all the way up through it. And the top of the other tower, a golf ball again, but stuck onto a curving blade edge, like..._ He chews on a thumbnail, squinting at his drawing, then traces an adjustment to the angle of the curving piece. _That's more like it, yeah._ The pair of buildings seems a matched set. They'd been neither the tallest nor most modern there, but they might possibly turn up in a search, if he can manage to enter the right terms.

For the first time, he regrets delegating so much of the tech work to Pritchard.

Standing and cracking the stiffness of spent hours from his back, he heats a small frozen pizza and pours himself a drink, then moves to the computer to cautiously trace out his leads. Quite some time later, the gradually dwindling list of cities comes down to just one, and a fortuitously angled skyline photograph confirms it at last.

 _Abu Dhabi_. Greg circles the words, sitting back in his seat with a sense of uneasy accomplishment. That's one mystery solved...unfortunately, all it does is open the way for thirty more.

Sighing, he turns over a new page and begins writing again.

 

.

 

Phil Anderson phones him, out of the blue, on a bleak Tuesday near the end of November. Greg recognises the number and almost doesn't pick up, but in the end he does, warily. He's too curious not to.

"Hello, Inspector—"

" _Just_ Lestrade, thanks."

"Uh, yes. Lestrade. Look, I wanted to call, because—I thought I should tell you, I'm sorry."

"Sorry?"

"For the part I played in what's happened to you—in what's _happened_ ," Phil says, and the words have a resolute, rehearsed ring to them. "I've been, uh...yeah. This is awkward. Could we maybe meet up, somewhere?"

Greg's eyebrows try to rise even farther, but they've already run out of space. " _Really_."

"Yes. Please?"

The pub on which they agree isn't all that far from the Yard, but it's a dead hour on a weekday afternoon and Greg doesn't spy any familiar faces. Outside, the heavy lid of the sky has opened into a chilled grey rain; he swipes beaded water from the top of his head with an open hand, looking around until he hears his name from a table near the corner.

Phil's face is no longer familiar, either, apparently. His hair has grown shaggy, and his stubbled cheeks seem gaunt and hollowed beneath his hooded, mournful eyes. "Thank you, sir—er, Lestrade. Have a pint? I'll get us a round. Just a second..."

Bemused, Greg watches him hurry nervously to the bar, returning to present the lager like a peace offering.

"Anderson, what's this about?"

"After you were put out, ah, they assigned a team, to your old cases."

"I'm aware," Greg says, crossing his arms.

"Yes. Um. I was put on it. And, you know, the files we pulled went all the way back to 1999—I know it wasn't 'til later that _he_ came around, but that's what the Chief Superintendent ordered..." Phil gives Greg a quick, apologetic smile; when it gets no response he lets it drop, taking a steadying swallow of his beer. "So anyway. I had to analyse all the evidence, all your reports, all of Chalmers' forensics. And then later, all the work I did for your team, too."

"All right. So?"

"So, all those times I remember being furious about you bringing Holmes in to interfere, when I was certain he was just pulling cheap tricks—when I was _sure_ my theories were good, and he'd shut me down without even _listening_ —I had to go through it all again. And damned if it didn't make _sense_!"

Greg sighs and hunches over the table. "I _know_ it did, Anderson. I wasn't passing shoddy work."

"I know it! Well, I know it _now_. And I needed _you_ to know that I'm sorry. He was bloody _brilliant_ , wasn't he?" Phil's pale brows draw together pleadingly. "I really, really am sorry, Lestrade. For all of it."

There's not enough beer in England for this. "Christ. Okay. Thanks, I guess."

"I've, uh...I've put in my notice," Phil says.

"You what?"

"I'm leaving the Met; tomorrow's my last day. Without you, and without Sherlock Holmes..." He shrugs. "I've done enough harm, haven't I? I'm certainly not helping anyone, staying there!"

"That's—I don't know what to say." Greg narrows his eyes at the humbled stranger who's apparently taken the place of the peevish technician he knew. "Are you sure about this?"

"Absolutely."

"Ridiculous. Come on, Anderson, listen to yourself! You think you need to prove you're feeling guilty? You weren't the _only_ one of us who failed him," Greg argues, his voice cracking on the last words.

"But that doesn't change the fact that I _did_! Look, it's already done. No going back, now." Phil empties his glass, turning to Greg with a look of admiration and respect that is frankly surprising. "My final report recommended you be cleared and reinstated. I don't know that they'll listen to me, but I've done what I could."

"Well. I suppose I should be thanking you, then. If you won't let me talk you out of quitting...best of luck to you, eh?" Draining the last of his own drink, he stands and offers his hand to shake. "And keep in touch, Anderson."

"Of course, sir."

 

.

 

The fact that Greg remains on suspension may excuse him from attending the Met's Christmas party, but he still has other December obligations to deal with. One of them is Ollie Berkeley's birthday, two weeks before the holiday. For the past few years running, Greg and Frank and a few others have playfully shanghaied him on his way out of work; the first time, a surprise, had led to an evening so enjoyable that it had since become traditional. This year, Greg rather expects he'll be a depressing blot on the festivities, but when Frank had contacted him to go over the plans he hadn't had it in him to say no.

He doesn't trust himself not to bow out at the last minute, however, if convenience is a factor. The lure of his secret notes is often strong enough to keep him occupied at home, lately: he submerges himself in hours or days of obsessive research following each and every ripple. So, rather than spend the day in his flat and risk disappointing his closest friends, he sets out hours ahead of time and idly wanders his old stomping grounds, between the Yard and Barts. Lunchtime finds him quite nearby his old favourite coffee shop; he walks in out of habit, and smiles to catch a glimpse of violet and pink hair moving about behind the bulky espresso machine.

Cleo is busy with a customer, and doesn't notice him right away. When she does, though, her eyes light up. "Hey, you! I haven't seen you in ages!"

"Sorry, Cleo; yeah, I've been spending a lot of time at home," he says.

"Well, Jesse and I were worried about you. The usual?"

He nods. "Yes, and a sandwich—um, the one on the specials board, thanks. Is Jesse not working, today?"

"He's on holiday with his new boyfriend," she reports, grinning.

"Aw, that's great! Tell him I said hello, yeah?"

"Sure." Cleo steps away for a couple minutes, and when she returns with his plate she continues, "I'm glad you came in, really; I was getting ready to ask Hazelnut Latte about you..."

"Wait, she comes in here?"

"Like clockwork, the last few months."

"Huh." Greg accepts his food and coffee, and finds a seat. As he eats, his thoughts centre on Molly, unsurprisingly. It's been quite a while since he's seen her; part of that has been his reluctance to blunder uselessly around places at which he has no business—the Barts morgue indubitably being one of those—but really, it probably comes down to guilt. At the time of Sherlock's fall, their once-easy friendship still hadn't recovered from the stupid, hurtful remarks he'd made. And the fact that he'd said those awful things as a way to cover up his doomed attraction to her adds a layer of resigned unhappiness to the whole situation.

These months of severed contact have surely been for the best, if only because they've given him time to get over that misguided desire.

It seems like a karmic revenge, really, when the door opens to none other than the object of his troubled musings. _Like clockwork,_ indeed. He swallows hard, fighting the urge to duck out of sight somewhere, but Molly isn't looking in his direction. As he watches, she unwinds the brightly coloured scarf about her neck and sheds her canvas coat, and he's startled by the sudden hunger that rises within him to make itself known.

Wind-mussed, her cheeks rosy and eyes alight with some private amusement, she's the most beautiful thing he's seen in recent memory. When she moves on to the counter to place her order, he doesn't allow his head to turn and follow her; instead, he presses his eyes closed and inhales deeply, trying to banish the unexpected longing.

_You've burnt that bridge, man. Let it go, for your own sake..._

His hopes of remaining unnoticed are, of course, futile. Even if the friendly barista _hasn't_ helpfully pointed him out, he knows his hair is distinctive enough to draw attention no matter how low he sinks in his seat, and getting up to leave will only advertise his presence.

It's not long at all before he's hailed by the chipper voice he hasn't heard since summer.

"Greg!" Molly steps back into his field of view, bringing with her the sweet aroma of hazelnut as she settles into the armchair across from him.

"Oh, hi Molly," he says, forcing a tone of casual surprise. "Fancy seeing you here!"

"It's your fault. You got me hooked on these," she says, gesturing with her cup. "Once you weren't around to deliver, I had to take matters into my own hands."

"Yeah, sorry about that," he replies, frowning as he realises he's not really sure which wrong he means in the apology. All of them, probably.

If she catches his discomfort, she doesn't let on. "How are you? It's been so long since I've seen you."

"Well, you know. I've had a lot of free time. I've done a little travelling, explored some new hobbies..." His sudden, consuming interest in geography might as well be termed a hobby, after all. "Nothing fancy, really, but it passes the time."

"That must be quite a change of pace." Her smile is small and tense, echoing his.

"It is."

In the ensuing silence, he watches her fiddle nervously with her necklace chain, playing fingers back and forth at her slender throat. It's clear that they're both avoiding mention of Sherlock, and the events that drove this painful wedge between them; neither of them wants to be the one to tread there.

"So, um. Any luck yet getting things sorted out, with your job?" she asks after a time, her voice soft.

"Mm. No, not just yet. Maybe soon, though?"

"I hope so. Working with Inspector Drake just isn't the same...I miss you, Greg."

"Knowing Frank, I have to say I'm not surprised," he jokes. "Shall I have a talk with him for you?"

Her abrupt, surprised giggle warms him more than Cleo's coffee ever could.

 

\-----

 


	11. Worthy Cause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The air returns to the room, along with her sweet smile, and he knows he's given the right answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much of this chapter would be lacking, if not for the perceptive advice and sparks of inspiration I received from [idelthoughts](http://archiveofourown.org/users/idelthoughts). I also got a bit of useful terminology and cheerleading from [undun](http://archiveofourown.org/users/undun). Thank you both!

  
**11\. Worthy Cause**  


.

 

               So, I've been thinking...

Okay. Should I be                                
worried, Anderson?                              

               What if...Sherlock  
               isn't actually dead?  
               What if that's just what  
               he WANTS us to think?

...Definitely worried.                                
About your sanity.                              

               I'm not crazy! I've been  
               collecting evidence.

What evidence? It's been                                
over five months!                              

               Can we meet up  
               somewhere, tonight?  
               I'd like to explain...

 

.

 

Greg's just had drinks with Phil Anderson. For the _second time_ in as many months. If there were a list of things he believed himself most unlikely ever to do twice, that would probably be pretty high on it.

The weaselly man had never been a favourite of his among the Yarders. He'd always done his best to give Phil the benefit of the doubt, of course, knowing it would be unfair to compare his scientific acumen to Sherlock's (even as the two of them had made a point of comparing themselves, frequently and loudly). But as fair-minded as he'd tried to be, Greg could never quite get past the competitive attitude Phil had presented.

That attitude is nowhere to be seen, now, unless the competition is for the title of Sherlock's most staunch admirer. Leaving the Met hasn't exactly curbed Phil's anxious need for validation, but it's channeled it into something gentler, without the barbs or self-important sniping that had so often rubbed Greg the wrong way.

And if he's honest with himself, it's nice to sit and talk with someone who's brimming with good things to say about Sherlock. Granted, it was a bit surreal to sit straight-faced and listen to Phil's theory. It might have been worrying, if it hadn't been so implausible and overblown.

"I just need to do more research," Phil had insisted tonight, in response to Greg's entirely rational protests. "If I can gather enough data, I think I can predict where he would go!"

Well, whatever it is that Sherlock is up to, in his self-imposed exile, it's nothing like _predictable_. Neither is it safe, by any stretch of the imagination; in the six weeks since returning from New York, Greg's handled five more ripples, in five more unknown locations.

That sort of frequency isn't unheard of, by any means—at least, not with Sherlock at home, in London...alive and well, _as himself_ , a blessing Greg had never thought to appreciate at the time. Considering the roughest cases here at home, the ones that had knocked Greg physically flat with multiple ripples spaced mere hours apart, four in a month should seem easy.

But it's absolutely not average, or simple, or _tame_. Not when Sherlock is changing his appearance like a lizard shedding skin after skin, and the landmarks don't make sense, and the heads Greg's slipping into feel slow and strange, laden with languages he can't anticipate or even hear properly—responding better to _pushes_ of wordless intent than the one-sided dialogue to which he's accustomed. After these ripples he feels muddled and wrong, often reaching for the leather-bound notebook before full coordination has even come back to his limbs.

He understands his uncle's scholarly fixation on language and geography, now. Hearing unfamiliar tongues surrounding him in the visions is one thing; _feeling_ them from within strangers' minds is entirely another. It doesn't prevent him from doing his job—turning a steering wheel, shouting for attention, grabbing an elbow or spilling an armload of shopping—and yet, it's as if a thick barrier of cotton wool is stuffed between him and the limbs he's trying to use.

He's considered another trip to Thrussington, wondering what insight Ted might have on overcoming these issues. But Ted would have had time to learn, handling successive ripples with increasing fluency until the muffling effects were gone. Greg doesn't have that luxury. Each ripple is a race against time, a new problem that pits him against his own ingrained habit of verbally _pushing_ his intentions as much as against the people who mean Sherlock harm.

_And besides,_ he thinks at night, his head spinning after more hours spent staring at skylines and topographic maps, _it's probably for the best that even Ted believes I've really lost Sherlock. At least until I understand the situation—I don't know why any of this is happening!_

The more tightly he can keep this secret, the better.

 

.

 

It's been over a year since Greg has had reason to attend Mycroft in his office; time was, whenever he'd been asked to act as Sherlock's armed guard, one or two private briefings had been a matter of course. The procedure is much the same without a direct invitation as it had been with one, although it requires a fair bit more patience, and a pat-down he hadn't needed to endure while escorted in by men in dark suits. He's calm and carefully polite while his identification is painstakingly verified and messages are sent querying his access privileges. At last, he's led deep into the building to begin his real wait.

Mycroft's unflappable assistant looks up from her mobile about fifteen minutes after he seats himself beside her desk in the anteroom. "A while longer, I'm afraid. There was a meeting. Sorry," she says, not sounding terribly sorry.

"No, I understand, I didn't call ahead. It's no problem."

The chair is more comfortable than it looks, but this is hardly a dentist's office; there are no dog-eared magazines or similar distractions. Although imagining various names for the beautiful brunette is a tried-and-true mental diversion—he's interacted with her dozens of times over the years, and never once managed to get more than a chuckle and a coy shake of her head in answer when he's asked—today he barely makes it through _Daphne; no, Diana_ before the game loses its interest.

His thoughts turn yet again to the most recent puzzle in his secret book. A Spanish-speaking country, but clearly not Spain—a casino whose doors lay within an open-ended tunnel, roofed by a glass-walled atrium of sorts between two taller buildings—from there, a short one-way street opening into a plaza guarded by a bronze horseman, and a building that looked as if it wore a bulbous crown...

_Stop. Just stop it,_ he tells himself, hiding a tight-clenched fist in his pocket. _You haven't figured it out, you're not going to figure it out. What you'll do is make yourself crazy trying, or call attention to yourself somehow and ruin everything!_

That's why he's here today, after all. This fixation of his has become too consuming, with nothing to distract him from it; something has to change, and soon.

Not-Diana stands, interrupting his internal lecture, and Greg looks to her as he does the same, relieved. She beckons him to follow her down a long, featureless corridor; he knows already that it leads to a code-secured elevator, another narrow hall, and finally a thick steel door with only a pad of buttons where a handle might be expected on its exterior side. It's a fairly ominous descent, in truth, but Greg is well aware of its significance.

Once, early on, he'd been led on a very different route through this building, to a mildly impersonal middle-storey office that had seemed almost innocuous. Its brass lamps, crimson velvet curtains and simple mahogany furnishings had made a respectable showing of trustworthy management, but Greg hadn't been fooled. Mycroft's commanding presence had filled the space to overflowing, grating uncomfortably at the pale, bare walls; he was borrowing the room, and it was a bad fit for him.

Then, Greg had been merely a means to an end: useful only as far as his willing cooperation to trap Sherlock back into rehab. It's been more than four years, now, since he'd first been taken this way instead.

Mycroft's underground office is always quite comfortably heated, but its austere darkness gives a chilling effect nonetheless: unforgiving planes of metal, mirror and grey concrete centre all attention upon the man behind the desk. John's talked about the comfortable, vintage opulence of Mycroft's domain, in his secluded rooms at the Diogenes Club, but it's this office that Greg associates most closely with the man. It speaks of a cold logic, a lack of distraction, and an unquestionable authority that rests above the need to coddle or comfort any visitor.

Perhaps he enjoys his time at the Diogenes, and perhaps his private home reflects the same sense of luxury as his impeccable suits, but Greg thinks it unlikely that Mycroft Holmes is truly so satisfied anywhere as he is behind this broad, heavy desk. Here he rules as he sees fit, unconstrained by the fancy frills of etiquette, attended only by those considered worthy of truly private meetings.

_And I am one of those,_ he reminds himself as he walks behind the woman, fighting the nervous pattering of his fingers at his sides. _Sherlock's being gone doesn't make me any less._

With a soft electronic chirp, the locks disengage and the door swings inward; his escort extends an arm in wordless welcome, shooting a wry look up at him through her long lashes. He nods his thanks just as silently, and blows out a long breath to steady himself.

"Mr Holmes," he murmurs, nodding in a gesture just shy of deferential as he steps past her to stand amidst the staggered flares from the deep-set skylight grid above. The door sweeps shut in his wake.

Mycroft makes a show of looking up in feigned surprise, gently closing his laptop with a thin smile. "Ah, Inspector Lestrade, good afternoon. You so rarely seek audience with me here."

He stifles a scowl at the word. _As if I'm a bloody peasant come to beg the king's favour. Pah._ "Well, I thought I'd make us even. You're always having to make excursions looking for me. Or, you were."

"Just so. To what do I owe this singular pleasure, then?" asks Mycroft, lacing his fingers together on the desk.

"You told me, before, that you might be able to do something about getting my job back. I think I'm ready to try that, now...if the offer still stands, that is."

"Of course the offer stands. It wasn't made in jest, Inspector. Are you feeling better, then? No longer hindered by grieving?"

Greg's eyes narrow slightly; the edge he hears in Mycroft's tone calls the younger man's emotions into question. Is _he_ still grieving, in his own inscrutable way?

Or...has he never needed to grieve for his brother in the first place?

"I am feeling a little better lately," he says, watching Mycroft's face closely. "A lot of it is guilt, you know—I let him down, after all. That whole Moriarty thing got out of hand. I should have been prepared."

"I'm not certain any of us were quite prepared for the events as they transpired." It's an interesting admission, from the man who so loves to appear omniscient. "I _am_ sure, however, that Sherlock would abhor you blaming _yourself_ for his actions."

Greg shifts uncomfortably on his feet. "And you?"

"Me, he _would_ blame. But then, he always did: my lot, as elder brother. And in the case of Moriarty...well." Mycroft's faint smile fixes itself into rigidity; his eyes slide away and down.

He may or may not be mourning a death, but he certainly seems to be mourning a _loss_.

On the heels of that thought, another pressing question presents itself. Greg clears a tightening roughness from his throat and says, "All this 'Richard Brook' nonsense. It _is_ , yeah? Nonsense? I mean, it doesn't sound like _you_ hold with it. And forgive my presumption, Mr Holmes, but I wouldn't think you'd want lies like his to stand in the way of—of your brother's legacy?"

"Not all things can be manipulated so easily, Inspector. I hate to disappoint you."

"You are _trying_ , though?"

Mycroft sighs and studies Greg for a long moment, as if weighing his worth against that of the answer. Finally he nods, almost imperceptibly. "Brook is a fabrication, as you say. But what _you_ can see, the nasty accusations, the false identity—that's barely a fingernail's breadth of the _larger_ problem. If the underpinnings of Moriarty's deceptions are not first dismantled, wiping Richard Brook from existence will do _less than nothing_ to clear my late brother's name."

At first, Greg can't say anything. He's too busy trying to keep the storm of realisation from showing on his face.

_That's what it's all about. Of course it is. Sherlock's on a bloody crusade._

_Does he have backup, though? Or is Mycroft really just working to restore a legacy?_

"Tell me how I can help," he's already demanding, even before he's fully processed his own thoughts—and they're running in every direction, now, flashing stop-motion memories of Sherlock over the past month: bearded, shorn, blond, limping, running. Unsmiling, dispassionate, and alone. _Always, he's alone._ "Mycroft. Tell me what I can do."

Making demands in _this_ room is hardly a safe bet, but Greg's rough break with formality seems to be an acceptable response. Mycroft looks almost smug as he answers simply, "Go back to work, and do what you do best."

"That's all?" The incredulous question echoes from the dark walls, sharp and dizzying like the sudden slam of his heart against his ribs. _No, don't shut me out, damn it—not now!_

"I can nudge things along at Scotland Yard, put certain information into the right hands; you might very well be reinstated within two weeks. What I _cannot_ do, Inspector, is force your placement with the team already working the Met's investigation into Brook."

"But, there must be _something_ —!"

Mycroft cuts him off wordlessly, with a shift in posture and a raised brow. Greg's heartbeat is racing; his mouth has gone dry.

"Are you quite all right, Inspector Lestrade?"

He swallows hard, blinking at the floor, and shakes his head to try and clear it. How has his control slipped away from him, so quickly? Lies, truth: they blend together, confusingly inseparable, and his tongue feels thick and foreign as he stammers an explanation. "Sorry, I—it's just, I hate how they're still dragging him through the mud! Not fair to his memory. He was desperate enough to commit _suicide_ , for God's sake, but people actually think— _they think he_ —"

"They do," Mycroft says, softly; "for now. But you and I know better."

"I miss him," Greg grates out, breathing, breathing; not caring how it sounds, for once in his life. "He didn't deserve this."

"No," agrees Mycroft.

 

.

 

               There's chatter out there  
               about a sighting, in India!

You aren't letting this go                                
anytime soon, are you Phil?                              

               But don't you see, I can't!  
               He's leaving clues for us. If  
               nobody ELSE can put them  
               together, it's my duty to try!

You're making no sense.                              

               One of these days I'll get  
               you convinced! I would've  
               thought you'd be happy...

Happy to believe in a pipe                                
dream? Sorry, mate. I've                                
gotta face facts. I'll be back                                
at work next week, and all.                              

               They've finally seen sense?  
               I'm glad to hear it! It's long  
               overdue, you were the  
               best DI they ever had.

You wouldn't say that if                                
you ever worked with                                
Rick Parsons...but, thanks.                                
Happy New Year.                              

As 2012 rolls in, James Moriarty—or Richard Brook, as the oblivious media continues to insist—remains vanished still. The Met has released no statements regarding their investigation into the man; if not for Mycroft, Greg wouldn't even have known it was ongoing.

It had been upsetting, frankly, to be informed so succinctly of his uselessness that day. Mycroft had all but dangled the tantalising possibility of his involvement, and then whisked it away within the same breath. Little wonder that Greg had come that near to falling apart, there in that dark, secret room. He'd done so well, for so long, overlooking his dependence on Sherlock; he'd presumed that it should be the other way 'round, given the literal lifesaving nature of his duty, but being close to the life of his charge had truly become an addiction, hadn't it? Mourning Sherlock had gone hand-in-hand with mourning the total loss of his own purpose; having him back in distant theory just _isn't enough_. For a moment, there, he'd seen an opportunity to make a better connection, to help Sherlock's cause in a way more tangible than _astral-bloody-projection, or whatever it fucking is_ —and he'd wanted nothing more than to make that happen.

Over these last few weeks, in the expectant, reflective lull of the holidays, he's had plenty of time to think about the possessive desperation behind his outburst. His life has devolved into notes and diagrams, research and waiting, sleepless nights spent drinking and smoking away his persistent worries...returning to work will be a difficult adjustment, but a sorely needed one. And regardless of Mycroft's warnings, Greg already knows he'll take absolutely any opportunity he can get to assist with the special investigation. The faster Brook can be eradicated and Moriarty dealt with, the sooner Sherlock can come _home_.

At least the Met's ponderous work isn't the only positive progress against Moriarty in the city. Months after Sherlock's disgrace, more and more reporters have sought supplementary interviews, only to find Richard Brook unreachable. As a result, the fervour of the public's outrage has died down, somewhat, and in its wake a quiet wave of support is beginning to make itself known.

Flyers tucked beneath windscreen wipers, posters on the walls at Tube stations, graffiti scrawled across alley walls and freight cars...perhaps it's all being done by just a few, but if so they're certainly industrious. They've done enough to perk Phil's interest, becoming another of his favourite topics at the pub meetings which seem to have become a bi-weekly ritual. Officially, Greg can't condone all of this underground group's methods; he's a copper, after all, and some of these people are clearly cruising for ASBOs.

But he can't help smiling when _We Believe in Sherlock_ appears on a wall at the park nearest his flat.

 

.

 

At half past nine on January the third, Greg finishes his business in the Personnel office and rides up in the lift alone, absently fingering the smooth edge of a brand new warrant card in his pocket.

When he opens the thick glass door to the Homicide floor, he steps into a wall of noise that he found comforting, once upon a time. He's prepared himself to walk the gauntlet, past the same curious eyes that had followed him out last summer...but it doesn't seem that anyone gives him so much as a second look. He sees a few officers he recognises bustling about among the desks, and Dimmock is hurrying away from a nearby conference room with a phone at his ear. Everyone remains wrapped up in their own work as he makes his way around the outer edge of the central space.

For almost two years, his team had occupied the furthest area of the office floor's northern side. The little grouping of cubicles there stands empty, dark computer monitors and quiet phones lonely on the bare desks. He stops short at the closed door of his office, his reissued key warming against his palm as he hesitates. The blinds behind the glass-paned walls are tightly drawn, and no daylight seeps around their edges from the room they hide; it feels like he's walked up to a ghost town, abandoned territory.

_Do I really want to be here?_ The question tickles at the back of his mind, a sneaking doubt. _I'll need to prove myself all over again, on my own; what if I can't measure up, anymore, without Sherlock?_

"It's just as you left it."

The voice breaks into his thoughts like an electric shock; he snaps his head around to find Sally standing a respectful few paces away.

"Nobody else used it for anything; there was talk about Strahan angling for it, at one point, but I think Drake shut him down," she continues, her expression unreadable.

Greg turns back to the door. "Drake's a sentimental sop," he says quietly.

"True enough. Well? You gonna stand there all morning?"

He turns the key, and slips it into his pocket; when he touches the switch, the overhead lights flicker for a split second before steadying. After a moment, Sally steps past him and busies herself with the outside window blinds, bringing in a shaft of sunlight to splash the floor between the desk and the two small chairs. When she turns back to face him, he still hasn't moved.

"Evan should be here soon," Sally tells him, combing a hand into the side of her curls as she ducks her head to study the desk. "He's off gathering a box of files for your attention; a few cases that had new developments you'll be interested in, the current Interpol watch-list, recent policy memos, that sort of thing. He said he would've got it put together yesterday, but Inspector Dimmock had him finishing up a few last things."

"Dimmock hasn't fought to keep him?" asks Greg, and shrugs off his coat at last.

"I don't think he wants to make a fuss, and he's still got Einhardt anyway. Besides, Evan's been talking for months about getting back onto your team."

He moves around to stand behind the desk chair, pausing again with his hands spread across the back of it to take in the familiar view. "What about you?"

"Me?" Sally picks up the blown-glass paperweight from the centre of the desk, brushes some dust from it, holds it up towards the window and peers through.

"Yeah, you. Whose team have you been with?" He's sure Evan must have called in a favour, to rope her into acting as his welcoming committee. This whole time, she hasn't smiled, and she's only barely made eye contact.

"I was actually with Drake, for a while, 'til Peter Sanjay came back in November; Mark Breiter quit the force in early August and left him short again. Something about family problems." She shrugs, still idly turning the smooth orb in the light.

"Oh? Frank hadn't mentioned that. But then, we don't talk shop, much, lately. Nice that Sanjay's back, though."

"Yeah. So lately I've just been floating on rotation, with whoever needs a hand. I figure a spot's bound to open up, after you pick up your second man."

Greg hums. "Got any recommendations?"

"You could have me," she returns, glancing at him with a quick twist of her lips, and finally Greg hears an echo of the snappy, cutting humour he remembers. "But, um. Dana Harris has been doing good work. There's a new guy, Charlie Yun, if you want lots of energy; he reminds me of how Evan was, his first year. Or, you could always ask for Sam Melsonby, if you wanna piss Strahan off."

"Pissing him off _was_ always a hobby of mine, but I'll take a pass on Melsonby. I'm interested to hear more about the first option, though."

"Dana, yeah, she's been working with DI Putnam on the scut cases— _oh_ ," she cuts herself off as she sees the expression on his face. "You don't want _me_ , though?"

"I wouldn't think you'd want _me_ ," he says. "With what happened, last year—"

"It was my fault. I know it was. You got backed into a corner and Holmes..." She drops her eyes, and realises she's still clutching his paperweight in both hands; carefully, gently, she replaces it on the desk. "Look, I'm not proud. Okay? I never liked him, and I still don't think he should've been involved here...but I didn't wish him _dead_ ," she says, and the word drops heavily between them.

Greg goes quiet and still, staring down at the glass-encased swirls long enough that Sally takes it as dismissal; he has to call out to stop her in the doorway. "Donovan."

"Sir?"

"If you want it, the spot's yours."

 

.

 

The next afternoon, Greg's still catching up to things; he'll likely have a case to work, tomorrow, but as yet the call roster hasn't been updated to include his newly reassembled team. Since he has enough time on his hands to take a long lunch, he follows his impulse and the spirit of old habits to the Barts morgue.

When he pulls open the door with two cardboard coffee cups carefully propped beneath his chin, Molly looks up from her paperwork in surprise. "Greg!"

"Hope it's all right that I came by. I'm back on the job, now! Thought I'd celebrate by bringing my favourite pathologist a coffee, _before_ I need to bring a case."

"Are you, really?" At his nod, she hops out of her seat with a bright, incredulous smile. "Oh, that's wonderful!"

The force of his grin, in return, almost dislodges the topmost cup before she reaches out to take it; she pulls his own coffee out of his grasp, too, quickly setting them both aside, then leaps at him with a hug that knocks the wind from him in a happy chuckle.

"God, Molls—I know you said you wanted me back at the Yard, but Frank can't be _that_ bad to work with?"

She flushes a little, smoothing his suit's lapels beneath her palms as she pulls away. "I'm just so _relieved_ for you! Hearing you'd been suspended made me feel _so_ awful. I've hated to think of how this had ruined your life..."

He looks up from fussing at his overcoat on the back of the visitors chair—if he sits on it wrong, he knows from experience, it'll leave the collar hopelessly creased... "Sorry?"

"Um. I mean. It's been hard. Hasn't it? For all of us." Molly turns her concentration to the plastic lid of her drink. "Thank you for the latte. It's good timing, actually; Jason said he might come by today after lunch, but he just texted that he can't get away."

"That so."

Her brown eyes snap up, and he curses inwardly; he'd _tried_ to keep his tone light.

"Oh," she says, "is it—I mean, should I not mention—? I'm sorry, Greg, it's just that we always—"

"I don't mind," he cuts in. "You should tell me all about him, yeah? C'mon, I know it's been a long time, and we left it badly. But I miss you, Molly. You were one of my best friends, and I want that back."

The air returns to the room, along with her sweet smile, and he knows he's given the right answer.

 

\-----

 


	12. Aim True

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stifling the silent plea beneath a wavering smile, he assures them, "I'll try. I promise."

  
**12\. Aim True**  


.

 

"...So I'm sitting on this witness's sofa, going over his statement, when someone comes in from the next room—"

"Oh, god," Greg groans into his drink. "I know where this story goes, Frank. _Don't_."

Frank doesn't so much as glance at him, but his grin widens as he continues telling his story to the rest of the table. "And I'm not even _looking_ that way; I'm talking to this guy, right? I just see a movement, at the side of my eye—y'know, like a sort of a pale blur—"

"What was it?" asks Lauren, grinning drunkenly with her head propped up in her palm. Ollie lounges beside her, one arm slung casually over her back.

"This guy had his granny living with him," Frank says, waggling his eyebrows. "Only he didn't _tell_ me that, did he?"

"None of these nice ladies need to hear this," Greg tries again, making a wide gesture to include all the women in the long booth: Molly, on his right, seems reluctantly fascinated. Next to her and opposite him, Drew's bubbly colleague Tiffany and Ollie's younger sister Beth are both giggling.

"So I turn around," Frank continues, "and I see this ninety-year-old woman strutting in, totally _starkers_!"

Ollie lets loose a high-pitched hiss of helpless laughter, as if he's sprung a slow leak, while a chorus of shocked, drunken exclamations comes from the women.

"Completely naked! Not a stitch on her! Shaped like a pile of rotting crab-apples, she was..."

"You don't have to paint a _picture_ , man. Come on!" When Greg looks to Drew for support, he only shakes his head and shrugs, hiding a smile behind the hand stroking his beard.

"...knockers nearly past her navel, and my God the _hair_ —"

Everyone is groaning through hoots of laughter, now, and even Greg finds himself chuckling despite his mortification.

"You're a bad, bad man, Frank," he declares affectionately, scooting off the end of the padded bench to stand as his friend continues his colourful depiction of the scene. "I'll be back in a few."

"...he doesn't bat an eye, does he; just says, _oh, don't you mind my Gran_..."

"Oi! Bring us back another round, Birthday Boy," Ollie calls after him; he tips a wave over his shoulder in acknowledgement as he weaves away towards the restrooms.

It's been a good night, after all. Greg had neither desired nor expected much—somehow, with all the upheaval of the past year, he'd thought his friends might let the occasion of his forty-ninth birthday slide by more quietly. He's spent the past six months slowly rebuilding his credibility at Scotland Yard, pulling his weight without complaint on minor homicides, then less-minor ones; he's kept his head down, and carefully curried favour wherever he could. He knows it's in his best interest to be cautious, and not to capitalise on Mycroft's string-pulling. As a consequence, he hasn't spent a lot of his spare time socialising; for the most part, Ollie and Frank have respected that reluctance, but they've been insistent in their efforts to buoy his spirits.

 _And yet I actually believed they'd let me sit at home tonight with takeaway and the telly,_ he thinks, shaking his head at the very idea. He should have anticipated that the two of them would drag him out to his local, at least, if not that they would invite Molly and the others along and make a party of it.

He finishes up in the loo, then strolls around the outer edge of the large, crowded establishment on his way to the bar. As much as he's enjoyed the company tonight, he's in no real hurry to return to their table.

There's a serious game of darts going, in the opposite corner, and he pauses to watch a turn or two; one man, a short fellow in a striped jumper, appears to be dominating the competition. Greg looks on as the man eyes his target coolly, squares up his posture and makes his throws one after another.

 _Whop_. He lands a bullseye. _Whop_. In the inner ring, hugging the metal. _Whop_. Another dead-centre shot.

The onlookers divide their reactions into cheers and disbelieving groans; Greg, on the other hand, can't help smirking just a little. He's fairly sure that nobody _else_ here was automatically picturing a pistol in their mind's eye, watching that.

 _How long has it been, now, since I've seen John? Too long,_ he decides.

He knows where to find the doctor, of course; he's long since memorised the address, in a respectably neat block of small flats out in Mildmay Ward. His monthly to-do list includes a regular check on the man's status, watching for any unexpected changes in address or employment on record. He even surfs over to the old blog page, now and then, looking for an update that's unlikely to ever come.

Twice, Greg has gone so far as to visit. The first time, John had made a considerate excuse for shutting the door in his face. The second had been bad timing, admittedly; he'd arrived just as John was leaving for work. At least John had been willing to talk just a little as they'd walked together to the Tube, explaining that he was the clinic's go-to for covering extra shifts and asking politely about Greg's job in turn. The chat hadn't amounted to much, though—John could hold up a casual conversation, and make the right responses to small talk, but it was as if a light had gone out, inside him. By the time they'd parted ways, Greg had felt nearly sick with the secret trying to tear its way out of his chest. He'd wanted so badly to give John hope, and he couldn't see any safe way to do that...

It's for Sherlock's sake that he's keeping that secret, as much as it is a selfish defence. And it's for Sherlock's sake, as well, that he watches over the man for whom Sherlock had so clearly cared.

Perhaps it's time he finds a pretext for dropping by again.

But that's a thought for tomorrow; for now, his friends are waiting for him. Shaking himself from his pensive mood, Greg moves on to the bar and orders Ollie's round.

 

.

 

Greg doesn't mark the anniversary of Sherlock's leap.

He thinks of it, briefly, the week before—a pained glance at his wall calendar on his way through the kitchen—but then the phone rings, and it seems as if it doesn't stop ringing for days. Case after case, piling up two and three together, running him and his team ragged while Frank takes his _sweet bloody time_ returning from a romantic holiday, the details of which he's sure to gloat about afterwards; it's not a pleasant fortnight, and it doesn't exactly feel fair, but it's what Greg _wanted_ , after all.

When he'd gone to Mycroft last December he'd been desperate for occupation, and he'd known it showed. He could hide the reasons, and he _had_ , but the unhealthy effects of too much time running solitary circles in his mind had been clear enough. Mycroft had gotten him back in at the Yard; time and the city's tireless criminal element had done the rest.

Busy is fine. Busy is plenty of opportunity to slip away unremarked, when the air disappears to gift him with a bodiless moment under the glittering lights of Las Vegas, or deep within the rumbling bowels of a massive cargo ship. Busy turns his focus outward, to late nights spent working with Evan and Sally over half-empty takeaway containers and piles of crime scene photos...to early mornings sucking down coffee at division briefings, and finally beginning to overhear his own name spoken without that persistent echo of curiosity or disapproval.

Busy is sinking into his armchair after a long day and relishing the numb, cavernous _emptiness_ of his mind, like a soft white buzzing, miraculously free of anxiety for a moment or a minute. Those stolen moments seem like all the respite he can get, anymore, but he'll take it. It's another reason to keep his dance card full, at the Yard, if salvaging his tarnished reputation wasn't enough.

So time moves on, and he lets it carry him along; he sets himself to a demanding, almost punishing routine. When he's alone at home, he reviews and adds to the carefully hidden leather-bound notebook that's becoming like a strange diary on Sherlock's half-glimpsed life.

 _Ginger again,_ he writes that September. _Suits him, oddly, but the oversized sunglasses do him no favours. (The vineyard looks like a postcard I saw on Cor's fridge. California??)_

In December, an angry scrawl, underlined: _That IDIOT. Wrestling a man three times his size at least, by an open window four storeys up! ...Clear night, view of Eiffel Tower. I can see why N always wanted to holiday there._

By late February, the tone of his writing, outside the ever-present lists of clues, has entirely veered off into the realm of fond sentiment. _For years I despaired that he would never learn to properly look before crossing the road. Now he steps out in front of a lorry, and I'm just glad to see him! He looks tired. I hope he has somewhere good to sleep, tonight._

 

.

 

Despite all of his observations over more than a year of ripples, Greg hasn't seen enough to confirm or rule out his suspicions that Mycroft knows his brother is alive. He's had no reason to get in contact with the man recently; mere curiosity over a hunch isn't enough. So the problem comes down to logic, carefully chewing over everything he knows and thinks he knows—he'd like to believe that Sherlock would approve of his methodical approach.

Greg's seen snippets of the Holmes brothers' relationship, spanning nearly Sherlock's entire life. He feels quite familiar with their particular brand of antagonism. Mycroft may invariably want what he thinks best for his younger brother, but Sherlock has always resisted Mycroft's influence at every turn. Is such an elaborate collusion between them truly likely?

The idea that Sherlock must have had Mycroft's cooperation and resources to pull off his deception, or to easily accomplish his travels, _is_ a seductive one...but Greg knows him well enough that he can't allow himself to make that assumption. Sherlock is an accomplished pickpocket and lock-pick; he has extensive knowledge of disguise and knows where to go for quick-and-dirty fake documents. Greg knows of at least two bolt-holes Sherlock has previously favoured in London, and he's sure that Sherlock could easily have set up contingency measures for himself at any point, be that eventual contingency a career-obliterating scandal or a backslide into his drug addiction.

As for the logistics of travelling undercover, it's not an absolute necessity that Mycroft be providing funding or other assistance. Greg hasn't seen any actual evidence of support mechanisms. All he's seen is the ten seconds or so surrounding each risk to Sherlock's safety—a strange city, dirty or ill-fitting clothing, deliberate disguise—he doesn't _know_ if Sherlock slips back to plush hotel rooms after his missions, or if he's sleeping on the streets. He may have spent the past year flying commercial airlines under assumed names, or relying on other less-savoury means of travel; Greg's already seen Sherlock as a stowaway on a shipping liner, after all, and it's easy to hitchhike or steal IDs for temporary use.

There simply aren't any clear conclusions to draw. Mycroft's involvement is a possibility, and a highly plausible one, but it's just one possibility; he has to regard them equally until he knows enough to rule one out.

The more time he spends thinking himself in circles on the matter, the more he begins to feel that he's just working himself into paranoia. At this point, even _Molly_ has begun to ping his bullshit radar. She always seems more nervous, more distracted, whenever a casual conversation touches on anything about Sherlock. And he still doesn't understand why she'd seemed so personally contrite over his suspension...

 _Forget it,_ he tells himself. _There's nothing I can do with the information, even if I figure it out, is there? Not without giving away that I know. And I know for a reason nobody should hear._ Thus decided, he rolls over in bed, firmly shutting the door on his whirring thoughts.

 

.

 

When DI Neil Jones had first stepped into Greg's office, a thin, hook-nosed man with all the charisma of a damp dishcloth, Greg hadn't expected that the case he'd brought in with him would be much of a problem. It was to be a brief collaboration, a favour to Ollie, assisting his colleague in the Economic and Specialist division with a confusing bank heist; that was back in December.

Now it's a week into _March_ , and the case still isn't done. Hell, they hadn't even managed to put a _name_ to the robbers until almost the end of January, when a minor scrap of evidence from the second heist had led Greg to look into the Waters family.

"It's them. It _has_ to be," he says under his breath, squinting at the blurred freeze-frame, then the file photo of George Waters, then back again.

"So you've said," Sally mutters from across the room. Greg's neck prickles at her tone; when he looks over she's covering a yawn with one hand, gaze trained on the printout she's studying.

"You don't think so?"

That brings her eyes up to his, blinking wide. "No, I do. I'm with you! I only meant..." She makes a weary gesture at the table full of papers. "Sorry. I'm just knackered."

He nods, deliberately easing back in the chair with a long, calming breath. "Yeah. Me, too. If we could just pin down another concrete connection..."

"We could have them in court by the end of the month," she finishes.

"I _want_ these guys," he says. He tosses the photographs down to the table as he stands; his watch reads half seven. "But let's go ahead and wrap up for tonight."

"Got plans?" asks Sally, moving to gather her materials into neater piles.

"Yeah, sort of. I'm, ah, meeting Phil Anderson for a pint." He decides not to mention that he’s likely to come back here, afterwards—if not to keep working the Waters evidence, then to focus on the two other cases they’re juggling. He could stand to get ahead on the associated paperwork, at any rate.

"Ugh, you're joking, right?"

"Aw, he's not so bad, anymore. Maybe a little...odd?"

She snorts and rolls her eyes. "You _noticed_ , huh!"

"Well, he's certainly not the sanctimonious arsehole he _used_ to be, anyway!" Sally steps out ahead of him; he flips off the lights, chuckling to think of the improbable quasi-friendship he's made. "I think it's really made a difference, you know, his decision to leave the Met."

"Wait—oh my _god_."

Having locked up the small meeting room reserved for his team's use, Greg turns to find Sally staring at him with an incredulous expression; immediately, his shoulders start tensing up again. "What?"

"You don't _know_? You really think—he actually told you he _quit_? Just up and resigned, out of the goodness of his prickly little heart?"

"Well—"

"Greg. He was _fired_. Point blank."

"Really?"

"He lost his bloody marbles! He burst in on a special meeting between Chief Superintendent Atchison and five division chiefs, and started spouting off about how he'd been wrong all along—about how Holmes only jumped because the Met betrayed him, and how London hadn't deserved his _genius_ , and…" She trails off, suddenly wary, but Greg can guess what she's holding back.

"He doesn't believe Sherlock's dead," he says bluntly, with a short shake of his head. "I already know. He likes to meet up with me and tell me about his latest crackpot theories."

"Oh, okay; I get it now," she laughs, brightening up once more as she follows him towards the lifts. "That's why you're suddenly his buddy! Comes to the Freak, you lose _your_ good sense too!"

" _Sally_!"

Two officers crossing the far end of the hall snap their heads around at the whip-crack of his voice. The grin drops from her face immediately as her fingers fly to her lips. "Sir. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said—"

"No." It comes out a growl, and he stifles a wince. He wouldn't have asked Sally back onto his team if he hadn't felt they could put their baggage behind them. Nine years on, he knows her well enough to accept her stubbornness and short temper; she's learned when to allow him thoughtful silences, and when to prod him with humour. She _used_ to speak up when she disagreed with him. She usually knows where to tread lightly, now, but the very fact that she still _needs_ to... "You shouldn't have," he agrees with a forced calm, turning away from her. "I'll see you in the morning, early, Donovan."

"Sir?"

"Just leave it."

"I _am_ sorry," she calls after him.

"I know," he says, but it's more to himself than to her; the lift doors are closing, and she's still hanging back, chastened.

 

.

 

"More goulash," Baba Cosmina calls from the kitchen.

Greg laughs and pats his belly. "I can't, I'm _stuffed_. I had seconds already, remember!"

She pops her head in around the door frame, adjusting her red-and-blue kerchief with one gnarled hand. "Then you take home with you," she nods, and moves out of sight again. "And soup; I have frozen for you."

"You're too good to me, Baba. Don't the two of you need to keep your leftovers for yourselves?"

"Take it, Greg, please," his former mother-in-law says seriously, pushing out her chair. "You know Mama loves to cook; she makes too much, always. I can't give the freezer a spring cleaning unless we give some away! And for you, Margaret? If you think it will last on the train, we can wrap some up..."

"That's very kind, Elena," Mum says. "I'd be happy to take a container of soup back to Bristol; as long as it's well sealed, it should stand a little thaw."

"Good, good." Elena smiles and carefully collects four small wine glasses from the sideboard; setting them on the table, she steps around into the kitchen. A rapid, cheerful exchange in indecipherable Romanian follows.

"Thanks for coming along, Mum," Greg says softly under the chatter from the next room, reaching over to squeeze her hand. "I know you usually get me all to yourself, when you visit."

"Nonsense, this is lovely. And I've spent as much time with Bernice as with you, this visit; I'd be a hypocrite if I expected you to change your own plans!" Her smile widens as Elena returns with a bottle of dessert wine, and Baba comes tottering after her carrying a plate of sliced cake.

Greg nods. "That's fair." More than fair, in his eyes: with Mum happily occupied, he hasn't had to feel guilty not taking extra time off work to spend with her. "I meant to ask you, how's Bernice doing?"

"She's well. Her knees are going, though, poor dear; they're talking about surgery this summer, probably. Oh, and she showed me this morning's paper. You were mentioned."

"Was I," he murmurs, his attention on opening the bottle Elena has passed him. Lately, they bring out wine every time he visits, and have him open it even if he doesn't want any. He makes a mental note to look into arthritis-friendly corkscrews.

"Yes, a story about a gang of bank robbers on trial this week."

"I saw this! Too bad," Baba says, grunting softly as she sits. "Not guilty?"

Greg grimaces and pulls the cork. "It wasn't an acquittal; they threw it out on a technicality! The judge decided there wasn't enough physical evidence to go through with the trial," he grumbles, pouring. _Good old Bernice, she never misses my bloody name in print, does she?_ "Just give me a few more weeks, I'll pin 'em down. You'll see."

His mother hums and folds her elegant fingers around her glass. "Do be careful, Gregory love," she says.

"What?"

"Don't forget yourself, hm? Only a year and a half ago, you lost your job over some sort of clash with your superiors—you might not be able to slide by, now, doing less than your best work."

"Mum..." It's incredible how just a word or two from her can make him feel like a child, even at three months shy of fifty. "Keeping the highest case closure rate in my division, five years running, wasn't 'sliding by.' And I can get back on top! I haven't got there, yet, but I know I can. It's just..." He loses steam suddenly, self-conscious under the eyes of three family members who want to see him succeed. "It's not an easy job," he tacks on, weakly.

Baba is sipping carefully at her wine, while Elena silently portions out the cake, but their attention is palpable.

"I'm sure it isn't," Mum says, her voice turning from pragmatic to soothing; she looks to Elena, as she reaches out to accept a dessert plate. "Don't get me wrong, now; I'm _not_ telling you to push yourself to perform..."

Elena nods decisively, smoothly taking up the reins in some invisible motherly collusion. "You need to balance your life. Every time you visit us—work, work! The world sits on your shoulders. No talk of friends, or relaxing—"

"Or sweethearts," Baba puts in, her eyes sparkling.

He looks back and forth among them, bewildered and outnumbered. Was this what they were discussing, earlier, when he was in the loo? They may have a point, he supposes, but it certainly isn't the one he'd thought his mother had been working towards making.

"Success is less important than a job well done," Mum concludes. "Remember that, and take some of the pressure off, love."

He's struck speechless, and not just by the cooperative effort. They expect him to take their advice at face value—a simple solution for the simple problem they perceive, a work-obsessed man in a midlife crisis—but they've no idea the depth of the secrets Greg hides.

 _Balance._ The word echoes in his mind. God, he feels as if he's been walking a tightrope for months now, windmilling his arms against every breeze, fighting to stay upright. He's kept his eyes on the wire—on the ripples, on John, on Anderson's clues and case after case. The wind has been getting stronger, for some time now, but he knows where his true balance lies.

_Come home. If you just come home, everything will be okay..._

Stifling the silent plea beneath a wavering smile, he assures them, "I'll try. I promise."

 

\-----

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to put a hold on my usual schedule until after I return from my upcoming vacation.  
>  **Next update will be Thursday, June 23.** Thank you for your patience!
> 
> In the meantime, leave me a comment? I'd love to hear what you're thinking of the story so far! <3 <3


	13. Leftovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's thinking in the short term, and in the singular...and Greg finds himself rather inclined to agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I'm back! Unfortunately, the break was busier than I'd hoped, and I haven't gotten as far ahead as I'd meant to. I'm pretty sure I can keep up my usual schedule again, now, for at least a few weeks...but this might not be the last brief break in the Thursday morning routine. oops. :/ Stay tuned, and bear with me, please. <3

  
**13\. Leftovers**  


.

 

There's a pair of oddball drawers on the left-hand side of Greg's desk at the Yard.

He's never quite had a solid purpose for them. They're a little too deep for pens, but too shallow for file folders. They're too narrow to fit the slanted envelope organiser he'd found in the supply closet (and later returned). And they squeak, too, sticking on their worn metal rails. Things that get tucked into these drawers are rarely thought of again.

It's been years since the last big push to update the furnishings in this building, venerable and shabby despite its optimistic moniker of "New." Most of the allocated budget usually goes towards more immediate needs, like keeping everyone's computers up to date. Modern modular cubicles had gone in on the open floors around six years ago, and since then a mandated percentage of the office chairs have been switched out for sleek, ergonomic models every year; the big, solid desks within the closed offices clearly haven't been high on the Met's priority list, and now that there's talk of moving buildings again, they aren't likely to become so.

Greg thinks that this particular desk might be a relic from the earliest days of this headquarters. It's certainly plain and blocky enough to date back to the seventies, anyway.

Today, a seemingly pressing need for tape flags has turned into an aimless exploration. Pulling the upper left-hand drawer open, with a little difficulty, reveals a wide assortment of surprises. Throat lozenges, half-used notepads, a bristly, yellowing bundle of thin plastic tabs meant to fit into the tops of old rail-style hanging folders—it isn't long before Greg forgets all about why he'd opened the drawer in the first place. He's busy marvelling, instead, at the sheer variety of objects that have been hidden away there: a collection of convenience, odds and ends.

"What a mess," he mutters to himself, pulling out a comb that's become tangled with a garishly coloured key lanyard, an unused souvenir from some charity drive a few years back. "Why'd I ever keep any of this junk?"

After binning the folder tabs and four fortune cookies of indeterminate age, he paws past a handful of disposable utensils and chopsticks to reach towards the back of the drawer. He thinks he saw a hint of pink; it might be the elusive tape flags, which he _does_ remember wanting, although he can't quite think why, now...

That isn't what he finds in his hand at all, when he pulls it back. It's a phone. _That_ phone.

The phone on which Sherlock had received his marching orders from Moriarty.

"Christ," he hisses, fumbling the inert device from suddenly numb fingers. It hits the desktop, bouncing on a corner of its geranium-bright silicone case, and lands face up.

_Why do I even have that?_

He thinks back three and a half years, to the tense days of the bomb hostages, and then to the painful morning after his efforts at the pool—the surreal hour spent in this darkened room, listening to Sherlock describe the confrontation Greg had watched from above. At the time he'd still been stunned and reeling, achingly aware of every word left unspoken and every fleeting expression on Sherlock's face. That conversation had seemed like a turning point, an honest connection between them despite Greg's lies and Sherlock's self-blame; when Sherlock had pulled the silent pink phone from his pocket and solemnly placed it on the desk, Greg had tucked it away without hesitation.

It had felt like an offering, a concession to Greg's progressive marginalisation over the course of that case. It had felt like a plea: _take this away from me, help me move on._ Now...it feels like a symbol of Sherlock's trust in him, somehow. And it means more than that, even; it had been sent as a purposeful facsimile of Ms Wilson's mobile, to catch Sherlock's attention with a reminder of his first case with John. Greg smiles faintly to think of how bewildered he'd been that night, watching through a ripple as Sherlock had chased across town with a stranger at his side. He'd had no _idea_ how important that meek, limping doctor would become.

Still thinking of John—and the myriad ways his presence had altered the dynamic of Sherlock's work with Greg and the Yard, mostly for the better—he digs back into the desk, pulling out larger items as he goes. It's accumulated junk, mostly, but given his years spent in this office, there are some notable mementos. They're things left over from the ends of cases, too minor to have been recorded as evidence, too evocative to discard: this little toy train, for instance, left by a rescued boy who'd calmed only when left to sleep in Sherlock's lap, much to the dismay of the genius. And this list, in Sherlock's quick, spindly handwriting, specifying supplies required for use in an unorthodox experiment to track a killer; Greg had been sent to gather items at Baker Street and do the shopping, while the others' hands were full sorting and preparing samples. He hadn't needed to be a chemist to pick out the unrelated additions. _Tea canister, right side worktop, red sticker underneath_ —John had been surprised to get his favourite, rather than his flatmate's.

In the second drawer, he finds more treasures. A photograph, a ceramic mask, a tiny faceted bauble of cobalt glass: each sparks a story of its own. When he'd walked away from this desk on the worst day of his life, unsure that he'd ever be allowed back, he hadn't given a thought to what he was leaving behind.

He's smiling vaguely down at a half-used box of nicotine patches—Sherlock's preferred brand, not his own—when the door opens, jarring him from his reverie; Sally stops two paces in, staring wide-eyed at the scene, and Greg looks sheepishly over the mess he's made, his desktop covered in oddments from end to end.

"Something I can help you find, sir?" she asks, after a long moment. One corner of her mouth is twitching relentlessly upwards.

"Yeah, uh, get me a box, would you? And... _oh_! I need some bloody _tape flags_."

 

.

 

These semi-regular meetings with Phil Anderson are both a blessing and a trial.

On the one hand, it's gratifying to see that someone else has worked so hard to believe in Sherlock that he's dedicated himself so fully to digging up obscure clues. Some of them are even plausible. Still, Greg doesn't want to give Phil too much encouragement. Sherlock is out there because he _needs_ to be, whether or not Greg understands exactly what's going on; he's in disguise and trying to work undetected, because what he's doing is _dangerous_. If even one person can piece together what Sherlock is up to, even someone like Phil who's seemed to be getting closer and closer to the edge of general sanity lately, then what could that lead to?

Greg finds it difficult to curb his possessive instincts, sometimes, while Phil spouts off about Sherlock being out there. It's _his_ secret, and it makes him uneasy that _anyone_ else might be trying to figure it out, no matter how deranged their theories sound...but at the same time, he's always interested to see what new ideas Phil has come up with. Phil's information, while inconsistent and fancifully embroidered, is like a supplement to Greg's own cautious research—opening new avenues of speculation, filling in a blank here and there. And it's a bonus for him that Phil's fanaticism makes him come off as utterly unbelievable. Phil can poke his nose wherever he wants, and leave an Internet search trail a mile wide, and _Greg_ won't be to blame.

But this afternoon, with Phil almost bouncing on his stool in his excitement, Greg has a definite feeling that it's come too far. Phil needs to be discouraged, more stringently than before—he mustn't broadcast his theories so publicly. What if people began to see them as credible?

Phil rambles through a patently absurd tale, stroking his scraggly beard between choppy illustrative gestures, and he shows no sign of easing back when Greg makes his usual rational protest; in desperation, Greg cuts him off. "He's _dead_. I'm sorry," he says, and he _is_ : it hurts to have to be so stern about it. "I wish he wasn't, but he really is dead, and gone."

For a tight-stretched moment, Phil's grey-blue eyes radiate naked hurt. Then he gathers himself for another go, tapping importantly at the map spread before him on the table. "Well, how do you explain this? Sighting Number Two: Incident at New Delhi."

The capitals are clearly, embarrassingly audible. "You haven't been titling these?"

"Come _on_ , Lestrade, just picture it. The police inspector on the scene of a baffling murder, under the stress of a largely thankless job, overworked and overwhelmed by a case that seems impossible..."

"I do know that feeling, but empathy won't make me believe you."

"But then he meets someone. Someone who insists on speaking to him about his case, in private. And then, the next day: an arrest! He tells the amazed press, 'I merely worked out the depth to which the chocolate Flake had sunk into the victim's ice-cream'—well, that's paraphrased and translated, of course."

"Oh, of course," Greg nods, pursing his lips around an amused smirk.

"Don't tell me you can't see it?" Phil's really getting into his scene, now, throwing his hands out as if framing an invisible camera shot. "The triumphant Inspector Prakesh sets out to return to his office, thankfully offering credit to his benefactor—only to watch the stranger shake his dark head and walk away, his greatcoat flaring behind him!"

"Is _that_ what you think happened?"

"It's exactly the sort of case he would love. It's exactly the _way_ he would solve it!"

"Clever man, Inspector Prakesh," Greg comments cheerfully, ignoring Phil's insulted huff; if gruff denial won't work, perhaps treating it as a ridiculous lark will do better.

Honestly, he _can_ imagine it going about that way, only he's certain that a great deal of insult to the poor Inspector must have been involved in the process. And the idea of Sherlock travelling the world in his treasured Belstaff, with his ebony curls untouched...well, that's pure romanticism on Phil's part. There had, in fact, been a ripple in New Delhi in mid-July—unrelated to any _murder involving ice-cream_ , as far as Greg had seen—and Sherlock's hair had been close-cropped, a pale, ashy brown that had seemed to blend into his tanned skin.

Greg has often been glad for Phil's romanticised perspective, really. He could never hope to find these stories on his own, these tidy tales of criminals brought down by an apparently selfless stranger. The thought that in between his more dangerous activities, Sherlock has found himself unable to resist helping justice along on a smaller scale...it's a reassurance that whatever Sherlock's been so focused on chasing, all these months, it hasn't changed his basic nature. (He always _was_ a nosy bastard, after all, and a showoff.) Greg's tried to keep an open mind about everything he's seen through the ripples, knowing that those moments out of context might paint a different picture than reality, but he has worried despite himself that Sherlock may simply have been out there _killing_ people, all this time. After all, a goodly number of them had apparently been trying to kill _him_ , once they'd presumably got wind of a suspicious figure snooping about their operations. While most of those pursuers had been diverted to allow Sherlock's escape, there had been some who had come to harm with Greg's help—the thug thrown from the window in Paris, among others. Phil loves to search out stories about this mysterious figure solving uncanny cases...but if, say, an arms dealer is found dead in his home, and later an untouchable trafficking kingpin perishes in a skiing accident, Phil can't be expected to connect those dots, can he?

By the time Greg's waited through two more fantastical stories, his patience is frayed nearly through. Phil is really on a roll, today; his enthusiasm seems to light him from within, and the longer Greg listens the harder he finds himself grinding his teeth together.

"It had to be him! There's no-one else it can be! Do you not _see_?" Phil's voice cracks in desperation, and Greg hates himself a little in that moment.

"I see that you lost a good job fantasising about a dead man coming back to life, and I know why you want that to happen," he says, covering his guilt by making the words as gentle and reasonable as he can. "But it's never gonna."

Phil drops his gaze to the map, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

"Okay," Greg sighs; he draws the last dregs from his pint, then gathers up his coat and the small box he'd brought in with him. "I'm gonna go and see...an old friend. You take care, okay? I'll put a word in, see if they won't review your case."

"Just look at the map, though. He's getting closer. It's like he's coming _back_ ," Phil says, with a sort of hushed, hopeful reverence.

 _Would that he were,_ Greg thinks, his throat suddenly tight; _it's been bloody long enough._ Unable to utter another hurtful lie, he turns to leave without another word.

 

.

 

On the third of four near-identical streets in Mildmay Ward, within a long row of neat, inoffensive terraced houses, sits a building that is only mildly distinguishable from the rest. It's quaintly lopsided, two-thirds of it painted white and the rest dark grey like an afterthought, with an abrupt vertical seam that makes the central front door's pop of robin's-egg blue seem weighted off-centre.

Greg quietly descends the short stairwell in the front garden, stepping past the open arch of the lower entryway; his broad shoulders block the October afternoon's crisp light, throwing a shadow of muddy teal onto the wistful blue of the basement flat's door. Shifting the white box beneath his arm, he knocks and waits.

"Just a sec," he hears, muffled, followed by a muted thump, and then the voice approaches. "I was just now getting my laundry started; I thought you said you were going to call _ahead_ before you came by, Mary—uh," John breaks off as he opens the door, staring up at him in surprise.

"Hullo, John."

"Greg! You weren't who I was expecting."

"Clearly not," Greg says, smiling a little. "Maybe I should have called ahead, too? If you're busy..."

"No, it's fine. Nothing that can't wait a few minutes. Why, ah, what brings you here?"

"Been a while since I'd stopped by. And I was in the area, so." He offers the box, wordlessly: a peace offering in an unfought war.

 _"I was in the area"_ is hardly believable, of course, here in this relatively murder-free neighbourhood. Greg can already hear the polite refusal coming, probably something about this "Mary" who's expected any minute—he actually stutters in his surprise when John opens the door wider instead. Even so, there's a subtle hesitation before John steps aside to let him in, a tiny grimace of reluctance that crinkles his eyes a bit. It's hardly Greg's first visit here, but this is the first time he's actually gotten this far; John really is extremely good at making excuses.

Greg's first impression is: white. So much _white_ , a glaring expanse of it, ignited and hardened by bright sunlight through colourless vinyl blinds. Accents of iron-red stand out, bloody cuts and splashes framing the space in curtains and a single papered accent wall, but the untempered white dominates it all. Even the preternaturally clean coffee table throws its own oval lake of reflected light upwards, to counter and overpower the red curve of the lonely hanging lamp above.

John seems small amidst that wash of brightness, displaced.

As Greg crosses to the compact grey armchair, to sit down under the spotlight of all that sun, he finds himself wishing he hadn't picked up _quite_ so much in his years at the Yard, and in the irrevocable employ of forces unknown. He may not have Sherlock's incredible eye for detail, to know whose efforts had gone into this stylishly sparse decor (was it the sister, or the sister's ex-wife, that John had once mentioned was a decorator?)—but he can read a space, the _feel_ of it, just as he can read the body language of the man who occupies it. And what he reads here, in both of those places, says _pain_.

 _Fuck. I should've done more, shouldn't I? Visited more often, tried harder to get him to talk to me..._ "So, how've you been?" he asks, lifting his eyebrows hopefully.

The answer is basically as he expects. "Uh, yeah, good. Yeah," John says, fidgeting a bit as he settles on the sofa. He's seated himself as far from his guest as he can. "Much better."

 _Too little, too late,_ Greg chides himself. He nods; what else can he do?

"Ah, so what's in the, er...?"

He perks up, thankful to have brought along a topic for conversation. "Oh, that, yeah! That's, um, that's some stuff from my office—some stuff of Sherlock's, actually. I probably should've thrown it out, but I didn't know if..."

"No, _fine_ , yeah." It comes out rushed and high-pitched, with John's face screwed up into a strained parody of an affable grin.

Greg sucks in a breath, the realisation like a hard thump in his gut as he rises from his seat: _He thinks I've brought this stuff to hand on to him. Personal effects, delivered to the bereaved. I didn't mean it like that..._ Or maybe he did, in a way, though these odds and ends are more vague links to memories than actual belongings of Sherlock's. He'd needed a good excuse to come by, and finding these things had made him smile. He'd hoped they might do the same for John, is all.

Opening the box, he stammers awkwardly over pulling out and explaining the only item within that had been dug out of the desk at his flat, rather than at the Yard. Of all the short videos in his amassed collection, this one most directly concerns John—and it doesn't hurt, either, that it's about the only one in which Sherlock _knew_ he was being filmed. Admittedly, he hadn't taken the time to watch it, before leaving to meet up with Phil today, but just thinking back on the afternoon he'd filmed it had given him a rush of amused, nostalgic exasperation. Giving this disc up is a reasonable sacrifice; surely John needs it more than he does?

"It's quite funny," he tacks onto his explanation, gracelessly, presenting the slim DVD case with what he hopes is an encouraging smile.

John takes it from him, but holds it between pinched fingers like a piece of unexploded ordnance; Greg feels his heart twist.

"Maybe I shouldn't have brought it," he says.

"Don't worry. It's okay." Though he's smiling, it's as if there's a wall behind John's eyes, building itself taller and thicker with each passing second. "Probably won't even watch it."

Frowning, Greg rocks back on his heels and stuffs his hands into his coat pockets. "Look, John...I don't mean to dredge all this up, okay? You don't have to—I mean, I know it's been a long time. I just thought I should, uh, see that you were all right—"

"I'm fine," John breaks in, emphatically cheerful. "It's been _two years_ ; we've all got to move on, sometime. And I'm doing okay. I've got a good job. I've been dating a sweet girl, these past few months. Things are...better." He abandons the disc to the coffee table as he stands. "Speaking of which, I _am_ expecting my girlfriend by, in a bit; I hate to rush you out the door, but..."

"Sorry, I should get out of your hair. Let you get back to your laundry," Greg agrees, bobbing his head wryly in the direction of the small basket of clothing waiting near the short half-level staircase.

Chuckling, John nods, and follows him to the door. "I do appreciate you thinking of me, Greg."

"Yeah, 'course. Maybe we should, I dunno—meet up for a drink, sometime. Catch up better."

"Drinks, sure. A drink sounds like a good idea." Judging by his face, John is hardly planning a future sociable evening at the local. He's thinking in the short term, and in the singular...and Greg finds himself rather inclined to agree.

 

\-----

 


	14. A Hard Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's certainly feeling desperate enough to trust a hunch, at this point.

  
**14\. A Hard Place**  


.

 

The murder of Louis Kline had most likely been unintentional. Wrong place, wrong time, a mistaken identity and a paranoid man with a knife: the lack of personal motive has always made for a more saddening and unsatisfying end to any case, in Greg's opinion.

The _murderer_ of Mr Kline, however, was no minor arrest. He'd been caught under an assumed name; his false papers had been enough to let him scrape by unnoticed for quite some time, but his fingerprints hadn't changed. Chad Bickley is wanted for a nasty string of offences, most committed in and around his hometown of Boston. He'd had ties to organised crime there, and mutilated remains found after a gang massacre four years ago had led the authorities to presume him a casualty.

At this point, Greg is only sitting in the interview room with him to pass the time; Bickley's extradition is already confirmed. He'll probably be taken off Greg's hands within the hour.

This guy's been around the block, according to his records; he knows his rights. He certainly knows enough to keep his mouth shut, without the protection of a legal presence. But it's obvious he has no chance, now that he's going back to the States; the case against him there is solid. Nothing short of a miracle will be keeping Bickley from a life sentence, looks like, and having a casual chat with Scotland Yard is hardly about to make a difference one way or another. Maybe it's that sense of doomed inevitability that's loosened his tongue.

_Or maybe he's just relieved to be talking to someone who knows who he really is,_ Greg thinks, leaning back in the interrogation room's plastic chair with a quiet sigh. The strong accent of Bickley's home city is somewhat muddled by the years he's spent trying to blend in here; in the ninety minutes or so they've spent talking, though, more and more of the American flavour has come through in his mannerisms. So far Greg's successfully gotten Bickley to open up a little on his favourite things about life in London, and he's hoping that the man might be persuaded to talk about one or two of his local contacts in the brief time they have left. Knowing the source of that forged identity could lead to a nice bust...

"I love my family," Bickley says abruptly, breaking the brief silence.

Greg tilts his head a little, unsure what reaction the man is trying to provoke with his challenging tone. "...Yeah?"

"I got a daughter, you know that? Dawn, she's eight now. Bright kid. Takes after her Ma."

"Her name was in the file," Greg says, nodding cautiously.

"Yeah, well, I know Judy's gonna raise her right; she won't be a fuckup like me. But I love her! All right? Judy, and my sweet little girl—I missed 'em both like crazy, every day! I don't want anyone try'na say I don't _care_."

He spreads his hands on the table in a soothing gesture, flicking a habitual glance towards the two-way mirror. The observation area is empty right now, since their murder investigation is all but done, but he'd rather keep things calm. "Nobody said you didn't."

"But you were thinking it. Weren't you? You were thinking, 'This asshole ran off, abandoned his wife and his four-year-old kid, and started a new fucking life'—dude, I can see it on your face." Sighing, Bickley slumps in his seat, the indignation draining out of him as he softly adds, "I did what I had to do, man. I wish to God I hadn't."

Greg watches him for a moment, deciding how best to draw the conversation back around to Bickley's alias, but when he opens his mouth he surprises himself with what comes out. "Did you ever get in touch? Does Judy know you're alive?"

"No," Bickley answers sadly; he twists his head around, wiping his nose dry against his own bony shoulder in a snuffling, awkward move that rattles his handcuffs around the table's restraint bar. "Couldn't risk it."

"Surely there was _some_ way you could've done, though, without risking yourself," Greg can't help but press.

"It was never about me! Fuck, if I wasn't a worthless coward I _would_ be dead—at least they'd be safe, that way!"

"You were _protecting_ them." His realisation is hushed, almost awed: perhaps not the expected tone during conversation with a criminal in custody. It's probably for the best that nobody's sitting in the adjoining room.

"What else could I do? I fucked up, shit hit the fan; my girls were gonna be in the line of fire. Ruiz was out for my head—he really had me backed into a corner, y'know? So when I saw a way to end it, I took it." Bickley lets out a long, shaky breath, staring at his hands with an expression of hopeless self-loathing. "And then I couldn't even do _that_ right; it figures."

"Now you'll be able to see them, though," Greg points out. "You'll have to face consequences, regardless, but..."

"But what? You think anyone over there's gonna be happy to see me? I don't _have_ to make a call! If I play my cards right, at least nobody has to know when they send me to rot like I deserve."

"They think you're dead. They've been mourning you!" Pushing up from his seat, Greg leans in across the table to deliver the words in a low, impassioned growl. His dig for information is entirely forgotten; in this moment, all that seems to matter is getting _through_ to this hapless, defeated man, criminal or no. "If your family loves you—if you love _them_ —they deserve to be given the truth. All of it!"

"You sound like you honest-to-god believe that, Detective."

"I do. What I can't understand is why _you_ don't!"

"Come on, you tellin' me you don't get it? Like there ain't a single skeleton in _your_ closet? Sure, you seem like a real goody-goody. You're on the side of the law, you put your fuckin' halo on every morning. But you got that _look_ in your eyes, man." Bickley stares intently up at him, waiting for his point to sink in. "There ain't someone you love, who you wanna keep safe from your secrets?"

When he puts it that way, Greg has to admit it makes an uncomfortable sort of sense. _If Molly knew about me..._ He wrestles with the distressing image for a second, then shoves it aside.

Evan's knock interrupts the moment; he pokes his head in, looking warily between them. "Sir, the Marshals are here to take custody. Sally's bringing them back."

"Yeah, all right. Thank you, Pritchard." Straightening up, with a distracted tug to set his suit jacket to rights, Greg locks eyes with the handcuffed man one last time. Finally he simply nods and says, "Guess that's that, then. Best of luck to you, Mr Bickley."

 

.

 

It's a quiet weeknight in the pub, if you don't count the small group of rowdy young men chanting and carrying on in the back over their mate's impending wedding. The celebration seems a bit out of place on a Tuesday night—maybe not as strange as the nuptials apparently having been scheduled for this Thursday, Hallowe'en—but a part of Greg resonates with their jubilant mood: just this morning, Sherlock was officially cleared of every accusation made against him. The investigative task force has finally done its job, and Richard Brook has been replaced by James Moriarty as the name on the lips of the public.

Greg isn't about to get his hopes up, of course, though it's tempting to believe that Sherlock's posthumous exoneration means a possible end to the mission abroad. Easing up on Phil's laughable theories isn't an option yet, either. Granted, he may have been especially harsh with Phil today, on edge while waiting for the announcement of the court's decision. But Phil's particular madness has proven quite resilient; his enthusiasm always bounces back, no matter what Greg says to dampen it.

Frank is on late duty, tonight, so it's just Greg and Ollie sitting together at the bar, which always makes for a far more level-headed tone of conversation—at least while Ollie's mostly sober. Nearly two drinks in, they're still discussing work.

"I'm surprised you're sticking it out with Jones, on that Waters thing," says Ollie, moving on from the topic of his latest extortion case. "I mean, nothing against the poor blighter, but I know from experience that he's not the most enjoyable guy to work with."

"It's not about his personality. It's about the case. There's no way I'm giving it up now, not when I know I could take those bastards down!"

"You've gone to court twice, and struck out, twice. You really think this is going to happen?" He lifts his eyebrows. "Not that I'm saying you _can't_ do it, Greg. You pulled enough impossible cases out of your arse, over the years, that I don't doubt you probably could. But, those..."

"Those were all when Sherlock was alive," Greg finishes for him. "It's okay, Ollie. You can say it."

"Not _all_ of them. Come on, now, I still remember the Braithwaite boys, and Tower House—"

"I've recently been informed I got Tower House wrong."

"—and you linked Ced Newbury to that unsolved case, on your own—wait, what? You didn't get Tower House wrong!"

Greg shrugs and waves for another round. "Doesn't matter, does it? At this point, I'm in it with Jones for as long as it takes. One of these days, they'll make a mistake, and I'll get out ahead of them."

"Sooner than later, we can only hope," Ollie says. They clink their newly filled glasses just as a phone rings; Ollie pulls it from his pocket and answers with a grin. "Lauren, my love. Having a nice time? ...She's selling what?"

A new cheer goes up from the stag party, and Greg nods his understanding when his friend grimaces and stands to take his call outside. As he walks away, Greg hears just a little more of the discussion.

"Are you _sure_ you really want it? You need to get the measurements..."

_Wonder what she's bringing home this time,_ Greg thinks, smirking to remember how Ollie had sighed over the massive, gilded hall mirror his wife had acquired a year ago. Whatever the new treasure is, it's apparently sparking some negotiation: Greg drinks half his pint while watching Ollie's broad-shouldered silhouette pace back and forth before the pub's front windows.

He's still sitting there alone when he chokes.

A mouthful of beer spatters the bar top. Greg moves without thought, pushing off his stool and making a hard beeline towards the rear, and he only narrowly misses colliding with one of the bachelor's inebriated friends; the door to the men's room is just closing on someone's heels as he lurches into view of it. With a last desperate gasp for air, he takes his next best option and hunches against the wall, partially hidden behind the bulk of an old pay telephone.

His surroundings fade quickly from view, replaced by an instinctive sense of space that makes it easy to shut away the conflicting sensation of the panelled wall pressed to his shoulder. Fear of discovery similarly set aside, Greg's full attention immediately centres on Sherlock.

The darkened room he now sees is cut through by a thin shaft of light from an adjoining corridor. Sherlock stands hunched over a computer at a wide, officious-looking desk, doing something involving quick bursts of typing and many furtive glances at the door. Greg feels a twinge of the familiar faint nausea he associates with his night vision, but it doesn't stop him looking Sherlock up and down.

Sherlock looks almost painfully slim, in dark-coloured cargo trousers and short coat of baggy cotton duck, but a cord of muscle is visible where the neckline of his T-shirt gaps. His hair is dark once more, grown out from the summer's dyed crop; it's long enough now to cling at his neck and catch sweaty, curled tendrils inside his collar.

When Sherlock completes his task, a handful of seconds later, Greg is waiting in the hall to cover his escape. The walls here are of heavy cement block, plain and cheerless, dressed only in peeling grey paint; as far as Greg knows, he could be seeing the basement of an old hospital, or a defunct sanitarium, or even a very badly funded school...

Turning the corner ahead of Sherlock's silent dash, Greg balks in surprise at the sight of a blunt-faced soldier in heavy woolen uniform, casually strolling the corridor with a very large automatic rifle.

_Okay then,_ he thinks, springing towards the guard. _I'm sure 'Eastern European paramilitary base in a bloody Cold War bunker' would've been my very next guess..._

To his credit, Sherlock does hesitate and listen rather than hurrying straight into the three-way intersection.

_Turn your head. Look how interesting this stretch of wall is, here!_ They're not words, exactly—over two years' practice, Greg has gotten better at communicating his wishes without relying on English. The guard takes the _push_ easily, relaxed and unsuspecting as he wanders on with his eyes trained safely away; Greg holds his command firm for a few seconds longer, then pulls back to fly after Sherlock.

Ahead, there are more soldiers to avoid. Sherlock's intended route appears to lead towards a room at the end of a long central corridor; along the way, Greg turns aside the attention of three more men as Sherlock slips cautiously past the branching halls and doorways.

_This is taking too long._ Greg's vision wobbles as a sharp pain stabs through his emptied lungs. _Couldn't you have chosen a route that didn't take you past these people's barracks?_ Two doorways remain between Sherlock and his goal, and the partially opened window there is clearly visible—but the last room holds a large table around which five soldiers are engaged in a game of cards. Even in their leisure time, almost all of them remain armed, and two have even laid their pistols beside them on the table, too enamoured with their sense of power to resist keeping the guns in sight.

_I can't push them all. There's no time!_

Another lance of fire rips through his chest; with it he feels the wall at his arm, briefly. Cursing, he shoves the sensation away. He has more important things to worry about than passing out in the back of the pub.

The round table means that only two men face the doorway directly. One of them has his gun out, while the other has a two-way radio within reach, and both have been drinking from the large bottle of vodka being passed around. _But which to choose?_ As Greg hovers in a split second of indecision, he knows that Sherlock is edging closer to the door, trying to gauge his moment to move by the sounds of the group's laughing banter; in desperation, Greg reaches out to touch both men at once—

Cacophony—confusion—an onslaught of emotional feedback jolts through Greg's senses like an electric current, _hot-loud-pain_ —he tastes bile and copper as he grits his teeth and stubbornly forces the _push_ through. Through dizzying double vision, he sees two hands of cards. The laughter at a third man's unintelligible joke echoes harshly in four ears.

_Looking down! Looking down, looking down—go, please go, Sherlock, go—_ His control snaps like an overstretched elastic, throwing him from the contact, and he sees the last flash of Sherlock's boot clearing the opening; head ringing, he shoves himself clumsily out to the hall and follows.

_I can't fucking believe that worked,_ he thinks, shaken, but his triumph is short-lived. Just as Sherlock reaches the empty room with the forced window, there's a cry of alarm from behind him; someone has stepped out into the hall from a room already passed, too distant for Greg to sense in his weakened state. Eyes wide, Sherlock throws his leg over the sill and slips over, dropping two metres to land in a pained, skidding crouch on a dark and snow-covered slope; shouting and sirens rise from multiple directions as he makes a sprint for the nearby treeline—and at that moment, the vision sputters out into light.

Present in the pub once more, he turns his face into the crusty panelling, coughing between wheezing gulps of air. He's nauseous, his head is throbbing and spinning, and the laughter of the stag party around the corner is a grating echo of the soldiers' drunken jeers.

Ollie is just settling himself back onto his stool as Greg makes his way gingerly towards the bar. "Sorry, mate, I didn't mean that to take so long. She keeps getting these crazy decorating ideas from some vintage kitsch blog she reads, and I'm _not_ about to rent a bloody scissor lift to get a carved bedstead in the window—you okay?"

"Yeah." Greg's voice is a rough creak; he clears his throat and tries again. "Yeah, I'm, uh—not feeling so hot, Ollie. I think I'd better get home. Tell Lauren I said hello, all right? I'll see you for lunch on Friday, if you're free?"

"Not if you're coming down with something this fast. I just had bronchitis in September, that was plenty! Go, get some rest; you should probably think about staying home, tomorrow, too."

Less than a minute later, Greg is slouched in a fast-moving cab, having promised a generous tip for extra speed. He doesn't know what to expect, but his intuition is telling him nothing good.

 

.

 

Sure enough, another ripple isn't long in coming. The air goes thin just as Greg reaches his doorstep; even as he pulls his key from the lock, sending up quick, fervent thanks to have been allowed to make it home, his physical control is already slipping away.

He slams his back into the door, and lifts a hand to fumble at the deadbolt over his shoulder with numbing fingers; his keyring lands with a clatter against the baseboard. An ominous sense of doom has hovered at the back of his mind from the moment he'd regained his breath in the pub, and it doesn't ease as the familiar features of his entry hall fade from sight.

_I'm sorry, Sherlock,_ he thinks, letting himself slide down into an awkward seated position on the floor. _I should've done better. I should've stopped this—_

Then there's no more time for guilty thoughts; his stomach turns as loud, oppressive darkness shifts into a grey-speckled twilight crowded by brambles and tree trunks. He hears Sherlock before he sees him, crashing into view over a shallow ridge, his breathing fast and ragged and his tangled curls whipping around his face. It doesn't look as if he's stopped running for even one second in the ten minutes or so since dropping out of that window.

Greg doesn't have to wonder why. Beyond the sounds of Sherlock's desperate flight, the woods echo with angry shouts, barking dogs, and even worse, a deep rhythmic thumping that feels entirely too close.

_Fuck._ The spear of light from the helicopter's search beam sweeps past, a strange sizzling of colour in Greg's eyes; he doesn't pause to appreciate the advantages of his night vision over the technological sort. He's already lifting himself towards the treetops, concentrating on expanding his senses outward as he continues to follow Sherlock's path.

Five, six...seven soldiers on foot, with automatic weapons and goggles over their eyes, moving steadily forwards and fanning out. Two are following after dogs—there are four of those. _Can't push a dog, can I?_ He'd shudder at the thought, if he had a body here.

Greg briefly touches the mind of one soldier, then another, but nothing stands out. The usual strategies aren't going to work, now. There's no obvious linchpin, no convenient bystander to distract or intervene; there's no time to methodically test variables until he picks out the weak link. All that's left, it seems, is intuition—instinct—and maybe, if he's very lucky, a second new trick in one night.

Sherlock stumbles and catches himself with a harsh gasp. The dogs bay in staccato chorus as they gain on their quarry. Somewhere to the left, a short, agitated burst of gunfire rings out a warning, and Greg swoops low to touch its source. _Yes_ —this soldier is young, less disciplined, quick to the trigger: Greg recognises the wild edge in the man's excitement. Surely the leaders of a group like this would be concerned by the breach of their security, too concerned to simply order the intruder shot dead on sight. But if any one of these men is likely to shoot despite his orders, he's willing to bet that it's this one.

_Is that all I can do? I'll stop him getting shot, sure, but that won't get him out of trouble..._

This is the man, he's sure of it now, it feels right in some indefinable, familiar way—but instead of simply settling in deeper and readying himself for the proper moment to take command, he's still looking outwards, twitchy and frantic with the need to somehow engineer a miraculous escape.

       _Now, do it, I've got to—_

                                     _do—something, how do I—_

There's no moment of revelation. No sudden new superpower, no profound and painful trust-fall into the waiting arms of God or Fate. Sherlock slows as his pursuers pen him in a clearing, and Greg clamps down on the young soldier and holds him in check; the helicopter hangs loud overhead, and the dogs snarl at being held back as Sherlock falters and falls to his knees, surrounded, _surrendering_ , and— _nothing happens_.

The ripple melts from his grasp, satisfied.

Greg pushes out all of his first full breath on one word—" _No_!"—and the force of the shout throws back an echo from the narrow walls of his entryway. _No, take me back, I'm not done—it's not right!_

"No, no," he mutters, hoarse and still panting, then lists over to one side to pull his mobile from his trouser pocket; his thumb hovers over the screen as he realises what he's doing. Who could he call, anyway?

The only man he knows who's watched over Sherlock more thoroughly than Greg himself. The man responsible for both Greg's firearms license and his continued employment. The boy whom Greg had likely _pushed_ often enough to shape a child's protective caring into an adult's ingrained, reflexive concern...

"I can't. Can I?"

The silent flat provides no answer.

Greg grunts as he picks himself up off the floor, clutching the phone in the tight fist he braces on the wall for leverage against his complaining joints. It isn't until he walks with it into the living room that he thumbs it on, and sees that he's missed a text while he's been breathless.

               It's been a while since we  
               got to have lunch together.  
               Tomorrow, maybe? :-)

As unhappy as he is, he still finds a faint smile touching his face as he reads Molly's message and begins to compose a reply. But his thoughts don't stray far from the bleak situation at hand.

I'd like to say yes, but I'm                                
coming down with a bug.                                
I'll need to call in sick for                                
tomorrow...maybe longer.                              

               Oh, I'm sorry to hear that!  
               Get yourself to bed, now,  
               and just take it EASY on  
               yourself, for once, Greg.

That your doctorly opinion,                                
then? I'm just overworked                                
and need a holiday?                              

Not that I disagree, mind                                
you. But that's easier said                                
than done.                              

There's a pause, after that, before Molly sends a response.

               Don't let your job get you  
               down. You'll feel better  
               soon, I'm sure! :-)

"If only I could be as confident as you are," Greg mutters, feeling his stomach churn.

 

.

 

As promised, Greg calls in sick to work for Wednesday, having spent the previous night pacing a groove into his carpeting. He's been too keyed up to sleep, waiting for another ripple to show him Sherlock in a cell, or being questioned, or worse: how can he rest, knowing the sort of trouble his charge has gotten into?

Over and over, he argues with himself against calling for help. _I have no excuse for knowing. How can I tell Mycroft what's happening, without explaining myself?_ One day becomes two, becomes three, and his "stomach bug" keeps him at home; periodically, he sends out terse updates that hint at horror stories in the loo, to ensure that no well-meaning friends will be tempted to drop in. Now and then he chokes down a little food, but for the most part he sustains himself on coffee; each time he undertakes the small, slow ritual of fixing a new cup for himself, it's a brief and much-needed moment of relative focus.

Greg ventures out before the first full day is over and buys a carton of cigarettes, breaking a sixteen-month-long streak of self-restraint with a nicotine binge that would surely shock and appall his sister. Through the nights he lies awake, staring up into the darkness and imagining what might be happening inside that bunker. _Sherlock can be hurt without a ripple. He can be in danger, without a ripple._ While the sun is up he sits smoking in front of the television, tuned to monitor the news at low volume, and he dozes in occasional fits and starts; over and over, he jerks himself out of shallow and unsatisfied sleep, his blood buzzing with barely suppressed panic. Twice, he catches himself just as his drooping ember threatens to singe the arm of his chair.

_I'm still breathing, for now, but his safety is absolutely not assured. Remember the Golem?_ Then, Sherlock had been able to rely on John's quick reflexes and determination to protect him; to this day, Greg still has no idea how to explain the events of that night, but it had thrown his entire understanding of the rules for a loop. Nothing seems certain, anymore.

_What was he doing? There must have been a plan. That office, the typing; I didn't get a look at the screen. Could he have been contacting someone?_ It's possible. In all the dangerous situations Greg has seen, these past two years, it's never appeared as if Sherlock has had any backup, but going up against a heavily entrenched paramilitary organisation must be an incredibly involved undertaking. If he _was_ sending data to somebody, what are the chances of that person being anyone other than Mycroft?

_I need to get more information. If Mycroft knows already, I can at least let myself relax a little!_

Finally Greg's worry for Sherlock outweighs his misgivings. At half past four on Friday afternoon, he breaks down and makes the call. Try as he might, he can't quite ignore the way his hand shakes around his mobile.

The nameless assistant's voice is familiar in his ear, as are her words after she greets him. "I'm sorry, Inspector, but Mr Holmes is unavailable."

"Uh. Will he be free later this afternoon? I can call back..."

"I don't believe so," she answers, in the diplomatic tone of one practised in avoiding specific details. "He's been called out of the country, on quite short notice."

"Really? Damn," he says, thinking fast, "I suppose I should've called yesterday, when the question first came up."

"You still wouldn't have caught him; he left on Wednesday afternoon. I do hope it isn't too pressing? I don't actually expect him to be in contact to receive messages right away."

"Oh, well, that's all right. I'm sure there's another way I can track down what I need. But thanks."

It's not exactly a total relief, of course. The conversation hasn't given Greg any real information to work with—it stands to reason that Mycroft could be anywhere in the world, and not necessarily leading an operation to rescue his brother from dire peril. But the timing is right, isn't it?

He's certainly feeling desperate enough to trust a hunch, at this point.

 

\-----

 


	15. Caring Too Much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hah, great. Well, here's to moving on, then," he toasts her, desperately wishing he could do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks are due to [longhornletters](http://archiveofourown.org/users/longhornletters/pseuds/longhornletters) for giving me a little reassurance and advice when I needed it, as I wrote this chapter. <3

"On your way out, already?"

Greg finishes pulling on his coat, then turns to Sally's desk to meet her inquiring gaze. "Unless you need me right this minute, yeah. I'm bloody exhausted," he tells her. It's true—though he's feeling better this Sunday evening than he had during his first shift back the day before, the three days he spent driving himself mad with worry have taken a heavy toll. He hasn't had to make much effort at all to support the lie that he'd been ill. "Aren't you nearly done, yourself? It's gone nine o'clock."

Sally snorts and gestures at the papers in front of her. "Got work to do, don't I? While you were out sick, we got pretty backed up."

"All right," he says, shrugging. "Do what you like; just don't stay too late, yeah? We'll have the briefing, in the morning."

She nods, looking distractedly over her desk as a thought visibly occurs to her. "Oh—I had our memo sheets for that, sir, but it looks like I left them in the fleet car when we came in from Islington this afternoon. Mind grabbing them on your way out, to bring with you tomorrow?"

"Okay, sure. Good night, then, Sally." They exchange a companionable nod, and Greg continues on towards the lifts.

Normally, Sally beats him to the door on weekend nights without active crime scenes, if he hasn't already planned to visit Baba and Elena. He likes to take an extra hour to work in the peace and quiet left after most of the division is gone. But he's looked forward to getting home practically since the minute he dragged himself in, today, and for the past two hours he's been absolutely desperate for a smoke.

He hasn't tried again to contact Mycroft's office. It won't do him any good to try prying into classified affairs, and his pragmatic side is well aware of the risk he's already taken in calling at all.

 _I wonder if his girl will even bother telling him I wanted something, since I was so vague about leaving a message,_ he muses as the lift opens into the cavernous expanse of the Scotland Yard car park's lower level. _It was probably a stupid move, but what else could I have done?_ It occurs to him that he should probably start thinking about what he'll say, if he does end up getting a return call. A question about his firearms licensing might be appropriate, if he can phrase it convincingly...

The car he and Sally had used today is parked far down the centre aisle, closer to the street-access stairs than the building's interior entrance. Greg keeps chewing over the Mycroft problem as he retrieves Sally's papers, folds them and tucks them into the inside pocket of his coat; by the time he's on his way to the exit, though, he's slipped inevitably back to the unresolved question of Sherlock's status.

 _I really want to believe you're all right. But you've got yourself into a tight spot, and I'm so damn scared I'll lose you..._ With the thought he visualises the younger Sherlock as he'd once known him: brash, unkempt, antagonistic towards authority at large—and yet, almost childishly eager to prove his worth to Greg. Even if the ripples had never invaded Greg's childhood, he can't imagine not having been taken with that improbable young man; how could he have resisted the chance to witness that brilliance?

 _Please,_ he thinks, _please, just be okay. I need you to be okay, Sherlock, you understand?_

Tears prickle behind his eyes; though the stairs aren't much further, Greg finds himself compelled to pause as he swallows them back. In the empty semidarkness, here, the ache of his fear takes on an echo, reverberating in his chest like the distant sounds of settling pipes. Nobody is around to see him patting down his pockets, searching for his packet of cigarettes to distract himself from his sudden upset; nobody can see the way his hands shake as he pulls them out—

A second small metallic clatter fades into the shadows, closer than the last. Greg looks the way he's come; he sees nothing.

But just as he strikes his lighter, a deep voice rings out from nearby: "Those things'll kill you."

Frozen in shock, Greg looks up from the flame. He'd know that rich baritone anywhere; it's been irrevocably imprinted in his mind since even before the first time he'd heard it in person.

_Sherlock!_

"Ooh—you _bastard_ ," he exclaims, cigarette instantly forgotten, and that's all he can manage as his throat locks around two conflicting trains of thought, _of course he's got to be an overdramatic arsehole_ warring quite aggressively against _this isn't happening. Surely I haven't wished him home?_

His heart stutters when Sherlock steps dramatically into view—the Sherlock of his memories, with his coiffed inky curls and his Belstaff armour, not the tired, hard-scrabble one who'd run disguised through two years of visions. Despite the variety of nightmare scenarios imagined over the course of this awful week, the man appears surprisingly healthy; only a tiny bleeding cut below his lip mars his impossible perfection as he speaks again. "It's time to come back. You've been letting things slide, Graham—"

" _Greg_ ," he retorts automatically.

"Greg," Sherlock corrects, not missing a beat; one corner of his mouth twitches very slightly upwards.

Relief rushes Greg's limbs like an electric shock; utterly unable to speak, he lunges forwards to throw his arms about Sherlock's neck. The grunt of surprise at his ear, the warmth of wool beneath his fingertips, the sharp scent of aftershave—confirmation from all his senses that this isn't a fantasy, this isn't a trick, _he's really, truly here_ —Greg can do nothing but clutch helplessly at Sherlock for long moments, squeezing his eyes shut against joyful tears.

 

.

 

Eventually, of course, the embrace becomes a little too much for Sherlock—unsurprising, considering that Greg could probably tally on one hand the number of times he's been in physical contact with him beyond a quick tap on the shoulder.

"Much as I appreciate the welcome," Sherlock mutters, squirming a little.

Greg releases him abruptly and steps back. "Sorry."

"Quite all right."

There's an awkward beat of shuffling silence. At last Greg clears his throat thickly, sifting through the jumble of his thoughts to sort out what he is and isn't meant to know. "So, ah, your suicide—"

"Was staged. I must say, Lestrade, you don't seem as shocked as I'd expected."

"Well, it never made _sense_. That you would do—that. I mean, not that I thought you were alive, at first," he qualifies hastily, "just, I had a hunch there was more to it..."

"You weren't wrong."

"Don't have to sound so bloody surprised." They've begun walking on through the deserted car park together, by wordless consensus. Greg's hand closes on the loose cigarette in his pocket; he gestures a silent _do you mind_ , answered by a slight nod from Sherlock, before gratefully lighting up. "Besides," he exhales on a long jet of smoke, "there were all Anderson's theories to consider."

"Anderson?" Sherlock's aristocratic nose crinkles in confused distaste at the mention of the name.

"Yeah," Greg chuckles. "He had a real change of heart, believe it or not! Got himself fired for lecturing the Chief Superintendent on the subject of your genius. Then he spent most of a year and a half meeting up with me to tell me all the ways he thought you might've faked your death."

"Almost certainly all ridiculous."

"I thought so," he agrees, unable to stop smiling around his cigarette at the simple fact of the man mounting the stairs beside him. "Y'know he even started a club? 'The Empty Coffin', or some such. Bunch of enthusiasts who get together to discuss how you aren't dead, I suppose, and what you might be up to out in the world."

Sherlock shudders perceptibly at the idea. "That's appalling."

"Oh, definitely. But they're about to have a field day, now—" Greg hesitates on the next-to-last stair as an unsettling possibility occurs to him. "Assuming you're, uh, really back?"

"Yes," Sherlock answers, although it doesn't exactly have the expected ring of confident victory. He grips the handrail behind him as he says, "The official business of returning me to life is, of course, my brother's purview. I'm meant to be cautious, for a time. But...I suspect the cat may already be out of the bag."

"You went to see John." It's a guess, but judging by Sherlock's immediate reaction it's a good one. "And, let's see; knowing John, he...shouted you down in public?" Another direct hit, it seems. Sensing that he's treading near an uncomfortable subject, he injects optimistic cheer into his voice as he steers away. "Well. Caution is overrated, right? So the news comes out! I wouldn't worry about the media attention, Sherlock; they're _all_ bloody vultures, whether you're dead or alive." _What matters is that you're alive,_ Greg thinks, leaning against the opposite railing, still faintly smiling as he continues to drink in the sight of his living, breathing charge.

Working his tongue back and forth along the inside of his injured lip, Sherlock cuts his gaze abruptly away from Greg's probably too-fond expression. "Speaking of which, I should be on my way. If I want somewhere other than a government safe house to sleep, tonight, there's someone else I need to see."

"Ah, sure," Greg says, nodding his understanding. "Go easy on her, will you? She's old for a scare."

Sherlock waves a dismissive hand as he turns away to leave. "She'll be just fine."

The street door swings open with a high-pitched squeal; in the split-second that Sherlock stands silhouetted against the lights outside, all curls and collar like a fantasy figure, a sudden, desperate need makes Greg's stomach clench. "Wait," he calls out, and it echoes sharply in the stairwell; Sherlock turns mercifully back, his eyes wary and curious.

Greg pushes himself off the rail and crosses to where Sherlock waits, reaching out one hand to rest gently on his forearm, drawn irresistibly to touch him just one more time.

_Still there. Still real._

"Why, Sherlock?" he asks softly.

There's more behind that question than Greg could ever let himself say aloud—so much of what he feels and what he knows is out of bounds—but even without explanation, Sherlock seems to sense the weight of it. His expression becomes troubled and distant, shadowed against the streetlamps' bright halo; perhaps he's thinking of the pain he must have caused John, and Greg, and the others who care for him. Perhaps he's thinking, as Greg is, of the hardship and risk he's endured, out there on his own.

His eventual answer is gentle, although cryptic. "Caring _is_ an advantage, but only if one is willing to sacrifice. Good night, Lestrade."

 

.

 

The next day dawns dull and ordinary, typical of early November, but as far as Greg's concerned it's the most beautiful day imaginable. He nods and smiles at everyone he sees on the way to work, goes well out of his way to hold three doors for a grateful young constable who's got her hands full, and startles Sally and Evan with a dazzling grin as he walks past them to his office.

"Uh... You okay, sir?" Evan asks, concern evident in his voice.

Greg turns and pops his head cheerily around the edge of his open door. "Of course I am, Evan! Why do you ask?" He snorts and rolls his eyes to see the baffled glance exchanged between his sergeants. "Can't a bloke be in a good mood, come Monday morning?"

" _Sure_ you can," Sally says, lifting her eyebrows as she takes a sip of her coffee, "but I could've sworn the next major planetary alignment wasn't due for at _least_ a few more years..."

"Ha ha, Sally, very funny." Perhaps the deadpan response would be more convincing if Greg could actually keep a straight face for it; it comes out sounding positively indulgent and fond, and she's clearly unsure how to deal with that.

He does manage to get a handle on his ebullient mood, by the time he and his team file in with the rest of Homicide and Serious Crime for the weekly briefing. The first few minutes of it, as usual, are taken up with general office business which affects Greg very little; he slips his phone out and composes a quick text, while he waits.

Hey Molls, I'm feeling                                
loads better today.                                
Did you still want to get                                
together for lunch, maybe?                              

He sets it to vibrate before pocketing it, and doesn't feel any response while the Chief Inspector takes control of the meeting and begins ticking through the active cases, team by team. Greg gives his own succinct reports after about a third of the group has taken their turns, then sits with a hand resting atop the concealed mobile, still waiting for it to buzz as DCI Edwards drones on.

"Right, next. Report on this 'Mysterious Skeleton' case. Dimmock?"

"Sir. Uh. Y-yes. I've not got anything...definitive...to report, just yet. It's definitely historical, but, um..."

"Unacceptable," Edwards says, frowning as Dimmock trails off. "This looks bad for us already; the papers are supposed to learn about crime scenes from _us_ , not the other way 'round!" Scanning his age-clouded eyes over the assembled officers, he nods decisively in Greg's direction. "Lestrade. You've got a good track record on the tabloid cases. Jump on this, today; between the two of you, I expect to see some progress."

"Yes, sir," Greg responds, sending Dimmock a quick, sympathetic glance. He knows what he would've done, a few years ago, confronted with a ridiculous case like this one.

 _Is there any reason I couldn't do it again, now?_ The realisation breaks over him like sunshine, and suddenly he's smiling at nothing once more. He ignores Sally's perplexed frown as the vibration in his pocket adds to his happiness.

               I'd love to, I've been saving  
               up some important news -  
               but it looks like I'll be busy  
               today. I'll text you later! :-)

 

.

 

Greg had assumed that Sherlock's first day alive would leave him at loose ends, readjusting to the safety and security of life on Baker Street. Perhaps it _had_ , for the first hour or two. But by the time Greg gets everything he needs from Dimmock and texts Sherlock about the scene, lingering delightedly over being able to select that long-dormant contact on his phone, he's informed that he's already third in Sherlock's queue.

Hours later, when Sherlock deigns to meet him at last and see the site of the unexplained bones, word of the return has indeed come out—Greg has found mention of it through an online search, but only in one very short news clip. It seems the story is effectively being muzzled, for now, probably a sign of pressure from Mycroft's direction. Nobody at the Yard seems to have caught wind of it yet, certainly: Sally's continuing struggle to pin down what's changed has been written all over her face all day, making this one of the most enjoyable secrets Greg has ever been called upon to keep.

Of course, with the way Sherlock seems to be diving headfirst into his old pursuits, Greg isn't sure how much longer the secret will stay under the radar of the rest of the media.

"So. 'Meant to be cautious', eh," he greets Sherlock, as the man unfolds himself from his cab and approaches. "Multiple private clients, your first day home?"

"Simply limbering up," Sherlock says.

As the cab pulls away, a surprising voice pipes up from behind Sherlock. "Afternoon, Greg!"

"Well, hello there, Molly! _This_ was what you were busy with?"

Quietly but proudly, Molly explains, "He asked me to be his assistant today," and Sherlock nods shortly in confirmation.

"That's great," Greg says, sharing a warm smile with her; a vexed sigh interrupts them.

"Shall we see these so-called 'mysterious' remains, now, or must we spend the rest of the afternoon on pleasantries?"

"Right, then; wouldn't want to hold things up! It's this house, here."

Greg leads the way into the old building, where plumbing work in the cellar for a renovation had led to the discovery of a secret room bricked into the wall. He's highly aware of Sherlock's silent looming presence at his back as he reaches overhead to pull down the cross of barricade tape blocking the cellar door. If it weren't for Molly's being there—and honestly, she's being so unobtrusive that he can _almost_ imagine she isn't, not that he really wants to—it would be so much like the early days. So many scenes, he'd waited until everyone had gone and then circled back to where Sherlock had slunk up, summoned to the shadows, awaiting his opportunity to enter in secret. The two of them, alone in the quiet of a closed scene...Sherlock, young and prickly and painfully thin, practically leaping around the room in his faded black jeans and ill-fitting colourless shirts...Greg, standing by and shushing him with every other word, scribbling down notes while chiding him repeatedly not to _move_ anything...

Nowadays, Sherlock handles himself at crime scenes with a studied delicacy, readying his tools and finding his sight-lines in a graceful economy of motion that is positively sublime to witness. Standing by to watch, Greg can't help the proud glow that warms him.

"What is it?" Molly asks Sherlock, readying her notepad. "You're on to something, aren't you?"

Hearing her speak draws Greg's attention to her, but the blue light cast by the evidence lamps holds it there: a sparkle flashes from a shining band on her left ring finger.

She senses his eyes on her and looks up; he raises his eyebrows, glancing pointedly down and back. Molly's expression changes immediately. When he mouths _How?_ she bares her teeth in a dainty grimace of embarrassed guilt. But then Sherlock moves around between them to take up a position at the near side of the dust-covered table, oblivious to his interruption of their silent exchange.

Greg turns deliberately away from the distraction, leaning in behind Sherlock to ask him, "This gonna be your new arrangement, is it?"

"Just giving it a go."

"Right." He pauses, processing the oddity. "So, John?"

"Not really in the picture anymore," Sherlock replies flatly.

_How's that, then? The John I saw a month ago would've given a major appendage to be at Sherlock's side again, I'm sure of it!_

What might have happened, in only four weeks, to change that? Perhaps nothing. Greg had already guessed that John's natural reaction to the initial shock would be to shout and carry on—Sherlock's penchant for the dramatic reveal had probably been no help, there. It wouldn't be unlike Sherlock to take an exaggerated or even fatalistic view of the situation, when his reception had failed to meet expectations he'd likely spent two years building.

 _Yeah, Sherlock's gotta be making it more than it is,_ Greg decides. _John'll think it over, and come around. There's no way he's not happy about this—how could he not be? It's Sherlock; brilliant, incredible Sherlock, returned from the dead against all odds..._

Greg may not have a perfect understanding of John's feelings, despite having been inside his head on numerous occasions, but that thought is certainly enough to set _him_ to smiling. By the time Sherlock crouches to uncover a hidden compartment in the table, sliding out a large, dust-covered old book that Dimmock's team clearly hadn't been able to find, the sheer glee that's powered Greg all morning long has returned in full force.

"I won't insult your intelligence by explaining it to you," Sherlock says, gathering up his little tool pouch and turning to go.

Greg's still grinning wide as he insists, "No—by all means, insult away!"

And oh, he's missed this: listening to Sherlock burst from terse, poised focus into a nimble torrent of explanation, bringing baffling details together into abrupt clarity. Greg's gladness is so intense that it takes him a second to actually process the meaning of the answer. "So, the whole thing was a fake."

"Yes."

"Looked so promising," Greg remarks, but he isn't disappointed at all.

"Facile," Sherlock tosses over his shoulder on his way out.

Bewildered, Molly asks, "Why would someone go to all that trouble?"

"Why indeed, John?" Not waiting around to see if the misspoken name will draw remark, Sherlock disappears through the dusty crevice in the cellar wall.

Before she can hurry dutifully after him, Greg clears his throat. "Molly? A word, please?"

She glances over her shoulder—Sherlock hasn't left without her, but neither is he hovering to hear—before half-whispering, "I was going to tell you!"

"Were you really? When?"

"I invited you to lunch..."

"You could've told me over the phone! Or emailed, or texted," he hisses earnestly, making his own quick check of the still-clear opening in the wall as he steps up beside her. "How long ago?"

"A few weeks, now," she admits, "but you've been so busy—and then you got sick—"

"Damn it, Molly, this is important to you; did you think I only wanted to hear from you if it was convenient?"

"I thought it would be _nicer_ , in person." She looks up at him with a pleading expression, her brown eyes glowing a mesmerising violet-amber under the blue lamps.

Greg suddenly becomes intensely conscious of how close they're standing. The sweet citrus of her perfume tickles his nose, unreasonably tempting him to bend his head low and nuzzle at the smooth curve of her cheek. Still, some stubborn, selfish part of him refuses to let him withdraw while he still has a plausible excuse to be so near.

"Are you _happy_?" he asks, in a low murmur that makes her blink. The tips of her lashes cast tiny, delicate purple shadows.

"Y-yes. Yes. I'm—very happy, Greg."

"Then I forgive you," he says, forcing himself to pull away from her, his face fixed in a small, gentle smile.

A dull clatter comes from overhead—Sherlock snooping for clues to the person or persons who faked the scene, or else merely reminding Molly that he's waiting—and her gaze flits away from Greg's like a startled sparrow, the moment ended.

 

.

 

A little bell jangles cheerily over Greg's head as he strolls into the off-licence nearest his flat. The clerk looks up and greets him with a distracted nod, then returns his attention to his phone call; it sounds like he's trying to convince a mate to bring him some supper while he's stuck at work. Aside from Greg, the shop is currently deserted; not much call for liquor at six thirty on a drizzly Monday evening, apparently.

 _What shall I get, to cap off the perfect day?_ he asks himself, considering; perhaps it's a good night to splurge on the fancy scotch, the sort that makes him feel as if he should be lounging in a posh suit before a crackling fire. He remembers the fine bottle his brother-in-law had brought out and shared with Greg and his other groomsmen, on the wet July evening before he married Nadia. Greg had been only twenty-eight, then, but he can still call an echo of that rich, smoky sweetness to mind along with the memory of his blissed-out excitement about the impending wedding...

 _Or, maybe not quite the perfect day._ He winces at the thought of Molly's engagement. Had he really been as accusatory as his memory of that conversation makes him sound? A better friend would have been more supportive. A better friend would have been genuinely happy to learn the news, instead of feeling like the floor was dropping away under his feet—

For one surreal second, as his lungs hitch in his chest, he believes he's merely reliving that shock. Then he gets his wits about him, glancing across at the still-distracted clerk, and drops quickly into a squat that hides him from view between two stocked shelving racks of bottles.

Sherlock is barrelling down the stairs from his flat, an expression of desperate intensity on his face; a blonde woman in a red coat hurries after him. They emerge into the rain with Greg hovering invisibly behind them, confused and distressed by Sherlock's clear upset.

"Twenty minutes by car. Did you drive here?"

"Er, yes," the woman answers anxiously.

Sherlock shakes his head, pacing a tight circle in the street as he repeats, "It's too slow. It's too _slow_."

Greg can't hope to understand what's going on, busy as he is with _pushing_ the driver of an oncoming car to swerve around his charge. That task done, he expects the air to rush in and close his view of the unsettling scene, but it doesn't: when Sherlock steps deliberately into the path of a motorcycle and raises an imperious hand, Greg's there as well, to ensure it skids to a stop.

"I need to commandeer this vehicle," Sherlock shouts, when the startled rider has caught his balance. "A man's life is at stake!"

From Greg's point of view behind the motorcyclist's eyes, it's as if Sherlock is making the request of him directly, staring _Greg_ down as if willing him to agree.

 _Yes! Help him,_ Greg tells the man, trying to project a sense of rightness and compliance; even as the kickstand goes down and the helmet is pulling up over his eyes, Baker Street is fading away from him.

"What in the fuck. What in the fuck," Greg pants softly, eyes watering as his vision clears to a view of his fingers gripping a low shelf, a dizzying array of shining glass and colourful labels.

He levers himself to his feet, snatching up a bottle on the way—anything, doesn't matter, it's just an alibi at this point—and moves around to the counter as quickly as he can manage, fighting to calm his heavy breathing. The young man's phone call hasn't yet ended, which is a distinct relief; Greg pays quickly, barely glancing at the amount displayed on the register, and hurries out with the bag.

 _Whose life is at stake?_ he wonders, walking fast. _Is this another new case of his?_

Safe at home, three minutes later, Greg slumps into a seat at the dining table, apprehensively waiting for the next ripple; it seems inevitable that putting Sherlock in charge of a motorcycle will cause chaos. While he waits, he unwraps his panicked purchase and finally reads the label.

 _Banana flavoured vodka. Christ. I don't know that I could ever be desperate enough to drink this..._ Greg sighs heavily and leans his head into a hand. "You're lucky you're bloody worth it, Sherlock."

 

.

 

Greg doesn't end up having a drink, banana flavoured or otherwise, until almost two days later.

The unexplained motorcycle dash had caused _three_ more ripples, as Sherlock had recklessly steered himself and his pillion passenger through wrong-way intersections and down flights of pedestrian stairs at high speed; afterwards, it had been all Greg could do to get his aching, battered body into bed. Then, after the next day's shift had already ended, Sherlock had at last contacted him—but if there'd been a connection between the blonde woman on that bike and a Tube car packed with explosives, Greg hadn't been able to see it.

At least, he hadn't seen it until about an hour ago, when he'd climbed the stairs to 221B for the first time since the night of Sherlock's unsuccessful arrest. Now he's nursing a flute of champagne, watching thoughtfully from across the room as that same woman chats quietly with Mrs Hudson.

Her name is Mary. And her connection to the bomb—which had triggered neither ripple nor explosion, thanks to Sherlock's lucky find of a convenient power switch—has just walked back into the room, closely followed by Sherlock, who has busied himself with opening a second bottle of bubbly even though two glasses remain poured.

"Oh! Spring wedding," Mrs Hudson coos, clearly visualising the scene of John's nuptials.

"Yeah. Well, once we've actually _got_ engaged," Mary confirms, and shoots a look Sherlock's way. "We were interrupted, last time."

 _God, everybody's pairing up, now, aren't they? Bloody hell,_ thinks Greg, pulling his cheeks taut over a congratulatory smile as he raises his glass to her and John. "Yeah, well, I can't wait!"

As if summoned by the sour undercurrent of Greg's thoughts, the door opens to admit Molly, accompanied by a stranger.

"Hello, everyone! This is Tom! Tom, this is—everyone," she says, dropping the last _everyone_ on its head at the possibly unexpected sight of Greg.

"Hi," says Tom, nodding down at him. He's quite tall, impressively gangly, and grinning nervously around the room.

Greg's "Hi," in return, comes out on autopilot: he can feel his eyebrows hovering near his hairline as he bobs his head almost convulsively. _Blue eyes, sharp cheekbones and a long black coat. How am I not surprised?_

John seems briefly taken aback at the clear resemblance, as well. As he recovers himself and pumps Tom's hand in greeting, Greg pushes up to his feet, moving away towards the two waiting glasses.

"Champagne?" he offers quietly, without looking at Molly.

By the time he turns back to hand off the two glasses, he thinks he's got his face under better control. Sherlock and John have gone downstairs, to speak with the press who've been allowed to pursue the story at last; Tom accepts his drink and takes a seat on the sofa, already the centre of attention between Mary and Mrs Hudson, leaving Greg alone on the other side of the room with his friend.

"So, um." Greg means to say something nice. But with Molly looking up at him, bright-eyed and expectant, it's as if his brain short circuits. "Is it serious, you two?"

" _Yeah_ ," she answers, disbelievingly—and rightly so. _She's wearing a ring, smart arse._ "I've moved on!"

"Hah, great. Well, here's to moving on, then," he toasts her, desperately wishing he could do the same.

 

\-----

 


	16. Private Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Existential doubt is contagious, too, it seems; time for a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the unannounced week off, guys. Fingers crossed I can make it through without doing that again. :)
> 
> There's some fun with formatting in the last section of this chapter; sorry, but I just couldn't resist. It should look okay for the majority of you, but if you're reading on a mobile phone or other small screen and it looks like gibberish, try turning the screen sideways to view it in landscape mode. Cheers! <3
> 
> And finally, special thanks are due to Kizzia for her well-thought out timeline meta for series 3, found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1143228). I did need to tweak it, just a tad, for my work - but it was quite helpful! :)

  
**16\. Private Conversations**  


.

 

Now that darkness is falling, it's far colder than it had been this afternoon, when this section of dead-end street had been cordoned off. Greg stands at the sidelines of the scene, for the moment; he and John are blocked from the worst of the January wind by the bulk of the forensics van. Still, he twitches his new scarf tighter about his neck, and wraps his hands tight around his paper coffee cup.

The house at the end of the lane had sat vacant for five years, neglected and overlooked, until an intrepid utility inspector had gone in today and discovered a dead body. Greg had noted the odd placement and attire of the corpse, and made the decision to call his recently official consultant; it turns out to have been a good choice, as Sherlock shortly claimed to have found evidence pointing to no less than _three_ other deaths on the property. Only one of the older bodies has so far been located, and honestly, Greg is starting to hope that the other two are false leads. There's only so much paperwork he can handle at once, after all.

Hewitt, the division's new forensics lead, has kindly brought a large coffee carafe and set it up here at the van, out of the way of tonight's action; Greg and John were only too happy to duck out for a break. While they wait for Sherlock to complete his third go-round through the old house—Evan's taking a turn minding him, for now, which is a nice change of pace—John has been catching Greg up on some of the most recent private jobs.

"Wait," Greg interrupts the latest tale, sure he's misheard, "you're saying Mary was there, too?"

"Well, yes. She wasn't supposed to be. I mean, not that I didn't want her there? Er, we'd just finished up another case and sent the client on his way, and then Sabrina Jennings rang the buzzer ten minutes later—so of course we both sat down with her to hear her story. We were in the middle of that when Mary showed up looking for me."

"Ah, okay." Greg nods, revising the mental image he'd drawn from John's earlier offhand comment into a much calmer picture of four people in the sitting room of 221B.

"The funny thing about it was, Sherlock wasn't even _interested_ in the case. He was doing that fidget thing he does—you know—when he's gearing up for a really blistering insult?"

"Countdown to ignition."

"That's the one. So I was already thinking up an apology, because I knew as soon as Mrs Jennings stopped talking Sherlock was going to say something awful, right? But then Mary interrupted us, and next thing I know he's leaping 'round the room, planning a midnight break-in!"

"I'm gonna pretend I'm not hearing _any_ of this," Greg says, his mock-stern tone suffused with good humour. "But do tell."

John mimes a tipped hat his way, smirking. "In order to prove that Mr Jennings was having an affair, Sherlock proposed we get into his office after-hours. I don't think he _expected_ Mary to stick around, but she wouldn't hear of it unless she could come along..."

Greg's mental image swings back towards something far less calm. "Right. Jealous, was she?"

"What? No. No, I don't think so..." John trails off, sipping thoughtfully at his coffee until Greg speaks up again.

"Well, I didn't get called to bail the three of you out, last week, so I presume it went okay."

"Oh. Yes. Turns out Sabrina hadn't been honest with us; she'd been blackmailed into years of unhappy marriage! Her husband had a PI shadowing her, feeding him photos of her with the woman she loved. He'd threatened to tell her family if she tried to leave him."

"That's a twist! Bet Sherlock was pissed off."

"No, actually. When we went back to her he handed over the PI's file, and advised her to bite the bullet and tell her family herself; without the secret hanging over her head, he said, she's got no reason not to leave her bastard husband and be happy with the love of her life!"

"That sounds downright romantic, for Sherlock," Greg remarks. "Your blog audience is gonna love it."

It draws a chuckling shake of the head from John. "Not for a while, they won't. I don't want to post anything about it until Sabrina has her divorce finalised. No use tempting fate; I'd rather wait for the happy ending." He frowns into the middle distance for a moment, then turns back. "Greg? What'd you mean by 'jealous'?"

"Oh, well, you know. You and Sherlock," Greg says. Then he realises it's probably impolitic of him to mention his observations of the two of them, in the time before Sherlock's fall. _God knows I was probably at least half wrong._ "She's not used to the two of you, right? You're this...I dunno, _unit_ , when you get going on a case..."

"Are we," John says into his coffee. "Yeah. I guess we are."

"It's something to see, I'll tell you. Greater than the sum of your parts, and all that." That much he can say, honestly, without crossing any dangerous lines. "But Mary never knew you, before Sherlock was gone; I'm not surprised at all if she feels like she's got to fight for your time."

John's face screws up almost endearingly as he protests, "We spend lots of time together! We work together, for one, and she's been living with me since December. It's not like I don't come _home_ at the end of the day."

"Well, but she's trying to lock things down for your wedding, isn't she? And with the way Sherlock calls you out day and night, without notice...I imagine that's got to be throwing a spanner in the works. She'd probably rather she could count on you to be helping her with the stationer's, and the cake tastings, and all."

"Sorry?"

"It's already almost February; don't tell me she's not hip-deep in planning! She said she wanted May, right? I've been there, mate. I know how much work it all takes. Granted, I got hitched in the early nineties—god, the polyester lace fripperies on absolutely everything, and that hideous green striped vest she picked out, I looked like a bloody _circus master_ —but, uh, yeah. Where was I?"

"How long it takes," John prompts him, worriedly.

"Right. Just getting the date for your _venue_ reserved is something you've gotta cover months ahead! Unless you two are going for a quick run to the registrar's, of course," Greg adds quickly, shrugging, "nothing wrong with _that_. Get the whole shebang out of the way, and you end up saving more money for a honeymoon, or a house."

John is beginning to look a little green.

Greg decides to take pity on him, and skip mentioning how soon the invitations will need to be sent out; it looks as if he's done his good deed, for now. John will probably be sitting down to have a serious chat with Mary at his earliest opportunity—and, really, it's none of Greg's business how they handle things.

Or fail to handle them, as the case may be.

 

.

 

On St Valentine's Day, Sally ducks out of work early for a date. Evan stays a bit longer, but when he steps into Greg's office to hand off his last report, he smells of freshly applied cologne and is distractedly smoothing his gelled hair with his free hand.

"Big night, tonight, I see," Greg says. "Have a good time."

"Yes! Thank you, sir. She's—her name is Rebecca. We met online; I know, that sounds cliché doesn't it? It wasn't a dating site or anything, though. She's a member of my video editing forum! And she's great. Really great. It'll be our third time seeing each other, tonight."

Greg gives him a slightly strained smile. "That's wonderful," he says, trying to muster the enthusiasm to make the sentiment sound as honest as it is. "Best of luck, then."

"What about you, sir? Got a romantic evening planned?"

"Me? No. I'll just be enjoying a quiet night to myself." He's actually planning on spending most of it sifting through the Waters files, again. After having suffered a third embarrassing defeat in court last week, his determination to get the drop on the family of bank robbers has become more a personal vendetta than anything else. Tilting his head, he makes a shooing motion towards the door. "Well, go on, then; you don't want to keep Rebecca waiting, do you? See you on Sunday."

Evan grins and hurries out, leaving Greg alone once more to work. But the words he's staring at refuse to make sense, fairly swimming on the page as his mind turns restlessly away again and again; with a quiet groan, he rubs at his forehead to try and dispel the unwanted voice dominating his thoughts.

_Wonder what she's doing tonight. Fancy dinner out, dancing; can he dance, I wonder? She loves to dance..._

Here's the thing: Greg is keenly aware that he's lonely, now more than ever. The shine has long since worn off his bachelorhood; there's no pleasure anymore in his living alone and eating alone and sleeping alone with no-one to place limits or demands on his time. The lack of companionship, emotional and physical, gnaws at him whenever he lets his guard down. He's begun to catch himself thinking in ways he hasn't since his very early adulthood—lewd, lustful thoughts that snag his attention at inopportune times, in the queue at the grocery or on the Tube, and occasionally even during work, much to his chagrin.

Noticing Molly Hooper hadn't exactly been a surprise on that front. Well, all right; it _had_ been a surprise, that very first time. He's always had a sort of talent for disregarding distraction, for keeping up the expected behaviour in any given situation—it comes in quite handy, given how often things come up that remind him exactly how wildly the truth of his own life deviates from the norm.

But it also tends to give him tunnel vision. Through all the years of his marriage, he'd given hardly a moment's attention to any other woman, no matter how beautiful, no matter the signals of interest any of them might have sent his way. And as far as Molly went, she'd always been his adorable, sweet confidante, his competent and soft-spoken colleague, all lab coats and cheery jumpers. In a decade of friendship, he'd never seen her _that_ way, not before that awful Christmas...and since he'd so obviously cocked up his one chance to make something more of it the following spring, he'd tried his very best to set that attraction aside.

But it had already been too late. He'd begun to notice Molly, and try as he might, that hasn't gone away since. Not just on occasion; not just when she's dressed to impress, all creamy bare shoulders and elegant neck, graced by a luxuriant fall of rhinestone-studded hair. Whenever he's near her, wherever they are: she's like a glow at the edge of his vision, seeping in under his skin. And while it's clearly something more, in his mind, than those base fantasies that snap in and out of his awareness in the presence of beautiful strangers, he tells himself quite firmly that nothing can come of it.

Nothing _must_ come of it; if there's anything he knows for certain, it's that.

About a week after Sherlock's return, when he'd at last learned that she really _had_ resolutely distanced herself from Greg and other friends to keep the secret of her part in Sherlock's fall, his increased respect for her courage had only strengthened his resolve. Even were she not attached, now, _engaged_ and unattainable...even if she could possibly be attracted to him in the slightest bit, he wouldn't allow himself to pursue Molly.

She deserves far, far better than the sort of love that he can give her. She deserves utter devotion, unfailing support; she deserves complete and wholehearted _honesty_ —all things he can never hope to provide.

So why, even now, is she the only one he wants?

 

.

 

As March rolls in, so does a rash of simple homicides, as if the violent underbelly of the city has emerged from hibernation to greet—and stab—the springtime.

It's all routine, the sort of work that is satisfying only until it's over; there's been no need to call for Sherlock's aid in weeks. Nor has Sherlock called for him, knowingly or otherwise. That's not a bad thing, of course; for all his irrational dependency upon being needed, Greg can certainly still be grateful for a month without ripples, now that those two awful years are over and done.

Still...it occurs to him that he hasn't heard _anything_ from Baker Street in a while. No new posts have been published on John's blog, either. Maybe they've taken more clients like the blackmailed wife, stories too sensitive to publish until a later resolution...or, maybe John is simply too busy. Greg hasn't seen an invitation yet, or heard anything more about the plans he presumes are underway, but unless the date has been changed he expects he'll know any day now.

In the midst of yet another stabbing case, Greg makes his way down to the morgue at Barts. It's to be a quick stop, just picking up a post-mortem report, so he hasn't brought coffees along with him. But when Molly happens down the same long hall, and pauses on seeing him to let him catch up and walk with her, he wishes he had something to offer.

As he approaches he notices her hair, right away. It's done up in a style he hasn't seen her wear since she was single—the same tight, braided crown that always used to mean she was trying to catch her balance after a bad date.

"You okay, Molls?" he asks, falling into step beside her. "Everything all right, with you and Tom?"

"Fine. We're—it's fine."

"Are you sure?" He doesn't want to push—no, he _does_ want to, but he knows he shouldn't. Lately, he can't be sure how much of this desperately protective urge he's been feeling stems from the years he's known her, and how much is just petty envy.

The flush rising on her cheeks matches the pink of her pinstriped blouse as she answers, "Yes. I'm sure. It's _fine_."

He'd rather sidestep the jealous bastard routine, if at all possible, because he knows it's unseemly. A man of his age, and supposed maturity, reduced to posturing like an ape over an imagined slight? For a woman whose tastes, as he knows probably better than anyone, don't run to the likes of him? _Ridiculous. Back off, you idiot._

"If you say so," he rumbles, shoving his hands into his pockets.

She rolls her eyes at him and strides ahead to push through the door to her lab; he pauses a beat, to clear his mind of sour thoughts, before wordlessly following her in with his eyes trailing the floor.

"Greg."

"Molly," he responds immediately, and straightens up to give her his full attention: he can hear the abrupt change of subject in her tone.

"I just had a thought," she says, turning to him with a large stainless steel bowl cradled in her arms.

He glances down at the bowl's contents and can't help blurting out in surprise, "Is that a _brain_?" It is, he's pretty sure, although on the few unfortunate occasions he's had to see one, they haven't exactly been _intact_.

She ignores the question, and asks her own instead. "What if John asks Sherlock to be his best man?"

 

.

 

"...So that's the shape of it," Greg says, pinning his mobile between his ear and shoulder while he reaches into his coat's breast pocket for his cigarettes. "No matter _what_ I do, I can't seem to pin these Waters bastards down! It's like they know we're coming, every damn time—and maybe they've even got someone pulling strings in court, I dunno; Jones and I are at our wits' end. D'you think you could help us out?"

Scanning the cloudy April sky, he lights up hurriedly, then switches the phone to his other ear. The only answer from the opposite end of the line is a vague hum.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm... Sorry. Were you still talking?"

" _Yes_ ," Greg sighs in a gust of smoke. "So? Will you look at what I've got?"

"No-o. I'm afraid I can't."

"What? Why not?"

"I couldn't possibly spare the time. There's simply too much to do."

Greg grimaces. If he'd known Sherlock wouldn't have the time for him, he'd much rather have kept the embarrassing blow-by-blow of his failures to himself. "Oh—well, you should have _said_ if you were busy with a private case already! I'd got the impression there hadn't been any, lately."

"No, no cases," says Sherlock, and then he mutters something faint under his breath that sounds oddly like "... _periwinkle_."

"No cases? All right, what, then?"

"Ah, I see you haven't yet heard; John has asked me to undertake the role of best man, Gerald."

" _Greg_." The twitch of his cheek threatens to become a wry smile—ever since the heart-to-heart of sorts they'd had in Dartmoor, Sherlock has thrown out the occasional misnomers like an unacknowledged inside joke—but he holds it back, for now. "Best man, eh?"

"Yes. And in addition to that not insignificant responsibility, I've agreed to coordinate the other details of the event. Mary may have had the foresight to push it back to August, but even so, she and John have been completely out of their depth—even after John came to his senses and showed a modicum of interest in the proceedings at last. I understand we have _you_ to thank, for that."

"Er, yeah. Okay," says Greg, blinking as he struggles to process the new shape of the world. "So. You're a wedding planner, now?"

"It's only logical, Lestrade," Sherlock replies. The line goes briefly silent; he breathes, "...no; _lavender_ ," then returns to his usual volume. "I have a mind for details, professional contacts all over London, impeccable taste, and—if I may be blunt—twice the fashion sense of either of them."

Greg has been nodding along in reluctant agreement, but that last item seems a tad harsh. "Well..."

"John dresses like my _father_ ," Sherlock points out haughtily. "Charming, to be sure, but would _you_ trust him to pick out a well-tailored formal suit?"

"Hah, you've got me there, Sherlock."

"At any rate, it's better this way. A chief duty of the best man, as I understand it, is to ensure that the groom gets what he wants."

Frowning at the sudden change in Sherlock's tone, Greg says, "That's one way of putting it."

"And John wants _Mary_ ," Sherlock continues softly, distantly, almost as if he's forgotten he's on the phone and hasn't heard Greg speak at all. "He wants an idyllic, romantic declaration of love; he wants it to be easy, and pretty. A happy ending. I can make sure it's _perfect_..."

_Oh, Sherlock._

Greg lets a beat of silence clear the line, scuffing his sole unhappily on the pavement. Finally he clears his throat and says, "Well, I guess I can keep working on the Waters thing by myself for now, until you have a little more time. Just, uh, let me know if I can do anything to help?"

"Mm," says Sherlock. "Ah, there we are! _Lilac_."

 

.

 

On his day off, Greg stops by Elena and Baba's to replace the bad light fitting in the bath, and to check all the batteries in their smoke detectors—he's met the kid who replaced the old handyman in their building, and doesn't think much of him. A fine lunch and an hour of conversation is his happily accepted payment. Then he goes on to deal with a few miscellaneous errands before tackling his shopping; it's past four, already, by the time he returns home. Depositing his armload on the worktop, he quickly puts away the milk and other cold goods, but leaves the rest for later. The post he's brought in is far more interesting than rice and tinned beans.

The envelope which had caught his attention bears his name and address in narrow, even cursive that wobbles slightly in the vertical strokes. No return address is listed, and when Greg gently slits it open he smiles and rolls his eyes to see a careful lining of aluminium foil folded around the paper inside.

"Still paranoid," he murmurs fondly. At least he'd been able to convince his stubborn uncle, after much debate, that the use of either ciphers or invisible ink tricks would be overkill. Cautious double talk serves just as well. And while Greg personally would much rather be able to use the phone, for the comfort of hearing the understanding voice, he's come to appreciate the charming ritual in these brief missives.

                                                                     _16 April 2014_  
_Greg,_                                                                                          
       _It continues to be an unlooked-for pleasure to receive your_  
_occasional letters. Thank you for asking after my friend's health;_  
_she remains well. I have seen her recently._  
      _In regards to your interesting question on the subject of_  
_heredity - beyond the certain fact that my own parents were_  
_nothing like me, I'm sorry to say I know little of my other_  
_relatives. My mother had two younger brothers, neither of whom_  
_returned home from the war; if I knew them at all, it was in my_  
_infancy. Father had no brothers, though he used to tell a wild tale_  
_about his sister, who had run away from home as an adolescent_  
_and supposedly travelled with a circus troupe for a number of_  
_years - I never did learn if that was actually true. Still, as you_  
_tell me your own grown nephew is hale and happy, I persist in_  
_the hope that our lot is ours alone._                                               
   _Ever since you first wrote to share the glad news of your_  
_surprising change in fortune - some fifteen months ago now, I_    
_see, how time flies - I've found myself dwelling more and more_    
_upon existential questions. It's been decades since I've allowed_    
_myself to truly ponder the meaning of my calling. Perhaps your_    
_rebellious, wilful nature has infected me?_  
_Take good care of yourself, Greg, and do write again. I wish_  
_your friend well._                                                                                  
                                                       _Yours, Ted_  


"...Huh." Greg gets up from the table and walks to his bedroom, considering Ted's words as he goes. It takes a moment to retrieve his leather-bound journal from its hiding place; he tucks the folded letter carefully into the back pages, along with the others.

 _Rebellious and wilful_ —it's not how he would have described himself, certainly. He's often thought of himself as largely helpless, pulled along in fast-running currents and barely allowed to keep his head above water. But if he looks at his life from Ted's perspective, it seems he has enjoyed an almost foolhardy level of agency.

He'd insisted on pursuing an active, publicly visible and sometimes dangerous career, despite the inherent risks. He'd married—even briefly considered becoming a father—and he'd remained close with his family, knowing all the while that any slip could be the one to ruin him. He'd met Sherlock face-to-face, and then consciously chosen to remain by his side, becoming personally acquainted with the very people he most often _pushes_.

Any one of these decisions, on its own, would have been a gamble. All of them together— _my God,_ Greg thinks, _it's no wonder Ted saw me as a bloody-minded child!_

It makes him wonder. Has free will truly led him to these choices? Has he been granted the luck to continue despite the path he's taken...or has he been placed deliberately in this crossroads, shaped to fit a grand design?

Sighing, Greg puts the book away and stands to stretch the stiffness from his back. Existential doubt is contagious, too, it seems; time for a drink.

 

\-----

 


	17. What Friends Are For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He'd worried John would prove dangerous to Sherlock; he'd simply never guessed the danger would be this sort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra special thanks this week go to [@slothshark](http://slothshark.tumblr.com/slothshark) and [May_Shepard,](http://archiveofourown.org/users/May_Shepard/pseuds/May_Shepard) for helping me in a tight spot. :)

  
**17\. What Friends Are For**  


.

 

"Hurry it _up_ ," hisses Sally, poking her head around the corner to get Greg's attention.

Greg makes a silent face at her and waves her off, listening intently to the phone at his ear. He already knows the court's recess is about to end: the background noise behind her has shifted from muted murmuring to a familiar echoing commotion along the marble halls. However formidable the amount of time he's spent on this case, it doesn't mean he hasn't also got _other_ work that needs to be done.

Besides, it's not as if his hearing is next on the docket. Sally hasn't got the experience, here, that he does; this is only her third time accompanying him to a non-trial session. She still retains a novice's awe of the whole process, believing its structure to be unassailable and inflexible. Greg, on the other hand, knows that quietly slipping into the courtroom five minutes in will save him from at least some of the inevitable tedium.

"Those were the results for Henderson, right?" he asks, glancing down at his little notepad. "I'm hoping to find something in common with the COD of Nora Freswick, we found a possible motive link. That'd be, let's see...twelfth February."

Sally hasn't taken the hint; now she stands in the entrance to the window alcove, with her arms tightly crossed. Her expression is eloquent.

"You'd better go on. I'll be a few minutes, it's fine! _Go_ ," he says, tipping his head pointedly in the direction of the courtroom.

Treating him to one last masterfully executed miming of anxiety and impatience, she goes.

Greg lets loose a sigh of relief and settles back into his seat on the cool stone window ledge. "Sorry, where were we?"

Molly giggles lightly. "Henderson versus Freswick. I've got it. Just let me go pull the records."

The clang of the mortuary office's file drawers rings in his ear, a contrast to the sudden, spacious silence of the hall beyond his alcove. He checks his watch to mark the time: he wants to be late, but not _too_ late. Sally wouldn't appreciate being put on the spot.

"Wasn't she the one with the bright turquoise beehive?" asks Molly, her voice tinny and distracted as she rummages for the right folder.

Judging by the sound, Greg pictures her with the phone pinched against her ear, lab coat askew as she bends from the waist to peer sideways at the lower drawer's files—he shakes the overly detailed image from his head as he replies. "That would be Mrs Freswick, yeah. Pretty memorable, I suppose."

"Oh, yes. When she was on my table, I remember I kept wondering if she'd changed her name from Slocombe! She was a dead ringer. Literally."

"Ah ha!" His happy exclamation is louder than he means it to be; grinning, he continues more reservedly, "I _knew_ it! You kept acting like you didn't _get_ it—"

"Only because it was nowhere near your usual standards! 'Doctor Hooper, are you free' is a pitiful excuse for a pop culture reference. I was _hoping_ if I played dumb, you'd move on," she says, sounding far more playful than stern.

"Oh, see; I just figured that show wasn't your generation."

"I used to sit and watch it with my mum." The ambient sound on the call has changed again, and her voice has gone slow and soft as it does when she's thinking. She must have moved to the table, to compare the two autopsy reports side by side. "It ran 'til I was about twelve. And, you know it's in daytime repeats right now, on Two."

"Yeah, I know." What else has he got to do lately, on his days off, but watch musty old comedy shows on telly? " _Twelve_ , though. Christ. I was already a _constable_ by then..."

There's a little sigh from Molly, and a short silence. Then she hums and says, "Both victims had badly arthritic knees. Mr Henderson had his left knee replaced, about a year ago; um, looks like Mrs Freswick had undergone surgery on both knees, but not full replacement. Sorry, that's really all I can find in common between these two—not what you're looking for, I'm sure?"

"No, likely not." He scribbles down a quick note, nonetheless, before putting away the pad: _knees - surgery, physio?_ "It couldn't hurt anything to give it a look, though. Maybe I'll strike it lucky."

"Maybe." The drawer creaks and clangs again. "So, I know you told me about Sherlock helping to plan John's wedding..."

"Mm-hm."

"It's not that I didn't believe you. But I dropped by Baker Street yesterday; I happened to have some extra toes—god, that sounds like such a horrid thing to say, doesn't it, extra _toes_! Anyway, he kept me for almost half an hour, asking me about women's hairstyles."

" _Not_ case related, I presume."

"No, definitely not. But I got a peek at his plans; he's got the whole wall covered, just like when he's on a case. And it all looks _lovely_. He's really put an awful lot of effort into this!"

"Could be he's looking for a career change," Greg jokes. "He's been useless to me for a month now, says he won't even consider looking at a case of mine unless it's a nine. I'm not even entirely sure what constitutes a nine..."

"Well, I might at least ask his advice, I think. He's already told me he owed me a debt of gratitude. Maybe he'd be willing to help me, just a little?"

"Huh? Oh. Your wedding. Yeah, I suppose he might."

"I've had a few ideas, of course. Nothing too grand. But I definitely want to make sure there'll be a good dance floor."

The very thought of it hangs a black cloud over his head, of course, but he plays along. "Oh, yeah? Planning on a wild party, are you?"

"I might be," Molly says. "You should start thinking ahead; I'll be expecting you to bring a date, you know."

 _Me, find a date?_ "Ah, well, fat chance," he mutters.

"Ooh—!" Molly makes a sudden, strangled noise that pops Greg's eyes wide in surprise. "Would you _stop_ that, already? Just stop it!"

"What? I—"

"No, Greg. No. I'm sick of it! You keep _acting_ like this, and I always let you. I don't say anything, I don't call you out, I let it pass and I let it pass again, but _come on_! When does it stop, with you?"

 _What'd I say? Fuck, did she think I was talking about not coming to her wedding?_ "That wasn't directed at _you_ , Molly! I swear! I'm _happy_ about you and Tom..."

"Ugh, you daft man! I know that."

"Then what—"

"That's the whole point," Molly continues crossly. "I've known you for ages, you bloody great walnut, I know when you're cutting yourself down! Yes, you've had it rough, losing your wife and nearly your job, and I get that you blame yourself for all sorts of _awful_ things..."

Greg swallows hard, clutching his knee tightly with his free hand. This is the most energetic rant he's ever heard from her, and he's having a hell of a time understanding what he's done to deserve it.

"...But you—it's like you truly believe you'll be lonely forever; to hear you talk, you're just _terribly old_ , and ugly and unlovable to boot!"

"Molly..."

"I just wish you'd stop beating up on yourself, Greg, long enough to look around you," she says, her voice wavering a little. It sounds like she's quickly running out of steam. "You're...you're..." 

There's a beat, a hesitation— _something more_ —but she doesn't finish the thought, whatever it is. Greg doesn't realise he's holding his breath until it shakes out of him in a bewildered rush.

"I'm sorry," he tells her. "I had no idea I was upsetting you. I don't think I even notice, myself, when I say things like that."

"Well, I _do_."

"I'm sorry," he repeats, at a loss for further words; chewing at his lower lip, he stares down past his knees at the veined marble floor—then notices his watch. "And I'm late. Shit. Look, ah, thanks for checking those reports for me, yeah? We'll talk soon."

Molly hums her agreement, but he could swear he hears a tiny sniffle as the call disconnects.

Greg manages to slip into the courtroom unchallenged, with just a few minutes to spare before his case is called; the dirty looks from Sally hardly register. He knows he needs to focus, and he _tries_ to fill his head with George Waters' slippery sons rather than _Molly, upset, furious with me..._

It doesn't work. In the end, he's not even sure if his failure to get the hoped-for decision is down to the distraction, or the Waters family's continued machinations, or just his own utter inadequacy to the task. And _that_ thought sets off another cascading chain of self-reproach, and angrily blaming himself for it, and _damn these Waters bastards anyway, why can't I ever fucking get this right!_

By the time the red haze clears a little, he's outside the courthouse, and his own name is echoing in his ears; Sally wears a beseeching expression, her hands raised defensively.

"In the _act_ ," he rages. "The only way we're gonna do this! _In. The. Act_!"

He aims one more brutal kick at the car's rear tyre, hard enough to send a throb of well-deserved pain up his leg, and then lunges for the door.

 

.

 

Despite Greg's sulking certainty that the Waters robberies will remain his personal white whale for the rest of his career, the situation miraculously fails to get any worse. His upset over it all had certainly reached a peak, that day at the courthouse. Somehow, though, setting aside the humiliation of defeat comes more easily the fifth time around.

It's easier to digest that than the memory of Molly's anger, at any rate. No doubt she's earned the right to comment on his attitude, having been his friend through the worst years of his marriage; she'd often acted as his sounding board. But _any_ of his friends could easily criticise his unfortunate tendency to let internal conflicts infect his behaviour. Coming from her, it had been...different, somehow, meaningful and troubling in a way he finds himself unwilling to dissect.

All he can do is try to be more mindful of his words and actions. The dominant landscape of his innermost thoughts is hard and bleak and airless, as always, but he does his best to focus more on the positive.

For Molly, he'll _always_ try.

And after a few more weeks of mulling over the problem—searching those figurative cliffs for their hopeful, hidden soft spaces—the trying pays off. Unexpected inspiration begins with Drew, wine-drunk and giggling into Frank's shoulder as the three of them stroll out of a fancy art opening at the end of May.

"Oh, but his _face_ ," Drew wheezes, "when he realised he'd spent twenty minutes pitching his pretentious multimedia conceptualisation to two coppers!"

Frank chuckles and says, "Personally, I think Greg looked every inch the performance art connoisseur, tonight. He's really got that vacant expression of interest down pat..."

"That was indigestion; I should've skipped the prawn cocktail," Greg replies, grinning. "I still don't understand why I agree to go to these ridiculous modern art things with you two charlatans. After all these years, I still can't tell abstract juxtaposition from a hole in the wall—"

"To be fair, one of tonight's exhibits really _was_ a hole in the wall."

"—and at least when it was me and Dia, I wasn't stuck trailing after you two lovebirds the whole time like a bloody third wheel," he finishes. His good-natured complaining is as much a tradition, now, as the art evenings themselves.

" _Someone's_ got to make sure you get out and find some culture now and then," Frank teases him. "The only other variety in your life is the crazy cases you pull! Did I hear you had to deal with an _elephant_ this past weekend? What was that all about?"

"State secrets, sorry."

Drew straightens up and adjusts his horn-rimmed glasses thoughtfully, his mind still on the reception behind them. "Think that artist will end up finding a backer for his piece? One with actual money?"

Frank shrugs and idly pulls their joined hands to his lips, dropping a kiss on Drew's knuckles. "The night is young, and there's no denying the bullshit is thick in there."

"Honestly though," Drew muses, "I thought it was an intriguing concept! An interactive projected digital environment that gradually removes all control from the participants? It'd be something to see."

"Creepy, I rather thought," says Frank. "They think they're making something happen, but the longer they work at it the more they realise there's someone else calling the shots."

A cab pulls up in response to Frank's hailing, but Greg remains frozen on the pavement after the other two clamber in.

"Oi, Lestrade, you planning on walking?"

"The illusion of control," Greg breathes...and just like that, the idea starts to take shape.

 

.

 

It takes a solid seven weeks of careful work and planning, kept quiet on the off chance that there's been a mole at the Yard all this time; it takes a series of favours called in from and promised to the guys in the IT division, and an intense day-long training session during which Sally picks up more computer skills than she'd ever wanted; it takes meetings involving three DCI leads, four bank managers and the head of Strategic Response, with Lestrade and Jones presenting a firmly united front in assuring their superiors that _this_ plan is truly worth the trouble. After all of this, at last, the twentieth of July arrives bright and clear.

Throughout the day, teams slowly trickle into place, readying themselves in hiding all up and down the street. A specially arranged gold transfer has set this bank up to be London's most attractive target for one day only; it's got a security system that only one gang of robbers has yet shown the inclination to beat, and Sally's at the ready to intercept the digital attack and return a false success. It's a well-laid trap, set with fine bait...and at four thirty-nine, in the stillness of the humid Sunday afternoon, the Waters boys bite.

 _More than nineteen months, I've been on this bloody case,_ Greg thinks, striding along beside his sergeant as the final armed team joins them in the underground car park and advances around them. He and Sally have spent all day together in the confines of the fleet car; the sense of anticipation has built between them to an almost manic edge, with victory looming so close. _Today, it ends._

"You know how most days aren't good days? _This_ is a good day," he says, with a hard, triumphant grin.

"Not for the Waters family," Sally returns, matching his confident pace with a wide smile of her own. They turn the corner to enter the building's lower corridors, and Greg ignores the phone's loud chirp from his pocket.

Sally launches into a final rundown. "Okay. Ten men on the roof; all exits covered; the bank's closed, so there are no hostages to worry about..."

Another chirp interrupts her—she pauses, looking to him expectantly, and Greg waves it off. "Sorry, no; go on, go on."

"Um, we've got the tunnel entrance covered—" _Chirp_. "—and Davies, Willard and Christie are heading up our Response on Mafeking Road."

The fourth message notification brings Greg to a grimacing halt under the white lights of the bank office. _Bloody Sherlock! Can't he be patient, just once?_ "Sorry, I'd better get this."

"It's him, isn't it?" asks Sally, but her lightly scornful voice hardly registers. The crowded room drops away around Greg as he reads the texts:

               HELP.  
               BAKER ST.

               NOW.

               HELP ME.

               PLEASE.

 _He never asks for help, there's never warning. This is bad,_ he realises, staggering a little with the rush of adrenalin that punches him in the chest. _This is really bad._

He looks up to where Sally waits, stuttering badly in his shock. "I, I-I have to, I—I have to go..."

"What!"

" _You_ make the arrest."

"No way!"

 _I can't stay. God, if I go breathless here, in the middle of all these people—_ "Sorry! You'll be fine; I'm, I'm—I'm cool with this," he squeaks unconvincingly.

"Jones'll get all the credit if you leave now," Sally protests. "You know he will!"

She has a point, and Greg is selfish enough to hesitate, if only for a second.

_He needs me. Sherlock needs me!_

He shakes his head, hard. "Yeah, but—it doesn't matter, I _have_ to go!"

Turning away without giving her the chance to argue, he rushes back towards the car park, mind racing. _If he knows he's in trouble, it could be more than what I can handle in a ripple. He doesn't know what I do, only that I'm a copper—he said he was only taking nines—has he taken a dangerous private case?_ He slaps a hand into the corridor's corner moulding to take the last turn without slowing down. _Or, fuck, has one of those baddies from his years away caught up to him?_

He's yelling into the phone at his ear before he can second-guess the instinct. "Back-up. I need maximum back-up! Baker Street, _now_!"

 

.

 

Greg drives like a madman, with his eyes flitting continually to either side, weighing every second of speed against the fear that he'll lose the air and his control. Screeching to an abrupt stop in front of Speedy's, he leaps from the car and sprints into the building, bounding up the stairs two at a time—the door directly ahead of him stands closed, so he turns aside into the kitchen, swerving around and through to find Sherlock hunched over the table in the sitting room.

By this point he's managed to concoct at least five terrifying scenarios, and seeing Sherlock alone in the room only rules out three of them as he gasps an urgent question; his heart is pounding in his ears so loudly that he truly can't process the answer, at first.

His hearing reconnects with his brain as Sherlock is mid-sentence: "...funny stories about John?"

" _What_?"

"I need anecdotes," Sherlock says, and then after a pause, blinking owlishly across the room at Greg, he adds, "Didn't go to any trouble, did you?" His face works through a complicated series of microexpressions, as he first takes in Greg's speechless agitation, and then becomes slowly aware of the growing disturbance outside: sirens, screaming tyres, and the loud, tangible pulsing of a helicopter lowering itself into range.

"Er. Lestrade. It appears I may have...miscommunicated the nature of my request."

"You _think_?!" Storming over to the open window, Greg gets out his phone and spends a few minutes hastily calling off the various reinforcements, pointedly refusing to look at Sherlock while he does it. Then he spins and crosses more shakily to the sofa, his knees giving way to seat him with an inelegant plop. 

"You are going to be the death of me," he groans, dragging his hands down over his face.

"Hmm. That's not an entirely improbable supposition, unfortunately, considering your poor stress response and your aversion to doctors— But never mind that," Sherlock says, hurriedly changing the subject in response to Greg's weak glare. "You said you would help me."

Still disoriented, Greg's first thought is _of course I will, always, I have to keep you safe;_ he very nearly says it. "Did I?"

"For John. You offered me your assistance, Lestrade, and I require it now." Sherlock cocks his head to the side, as if debating whether slowing his words even further will somehow get Greg on the same page with him.

"Right..." _Might as well just jump in,_ Greg tells himself morosely. _After the nonsense I just pulled, I'm probably better off not showing my face around Sally or the Yard for a while, anyway._ "What is it you need?"

The "I'm dealing with an idiot" expression becomes a little more pronounced as Sherlock silently holds up a paperback book—for the second time, Greg realises, now that he's calm enough to see and read the title: _How to Write an Unforgettable Best Man Speech._

This is what Molly had been worried about, back in March, when she and Greg had contemplated the future over a bowl of brains. She'd felt sure that Sherlock was bound to commit some horrible faux pas, if allowed to make the traditional address; Greg had seen her point, although he hadn't viewed it as quite the potential disaster that she had. His final opinion on the matter had been that John surely knew to expect at least _one_ gaffe and plan accordingly. With a little guidance, though...maybe Sherlock can prove Molly's fears unfounded?

Shaking off the last tense remnants of his groundless panic with a deep sigh, Greg pulls himself to sit up a little straighter. "Okay, hand that over and let's get started."

 

.

 

The next few hours aren't exactly what Greg would call enjoyable. He's never been much good with real speeches, himself—he can handle court testimony with confidence, and bluster his way through press conferences when he has to, but he still sweats to recall the hash he'd made of the toasts at Frank and Drew's engagement party. (To be fair, he hadn't been in great shape at the time. He'd left Nadia only four months prior, not that he considers that any excuse.)

But this is different; this is coaching, or possibly an attempt to herd a cat.

Greg briefly wonders, at a point long after he's shut his phone off, whether Mycroft had ever thought of reinstating the continual surveillance he'd kept on Baker Street during the first months John had been in residence. It's unlikely that Sherlock would stand for such an imposition, especially since Moriarty...but if anyone _is_ listening, tonight, they've definitely been treated to some gems.

Sherlock had argued vehemently against the need for written notes, claiming the fluidity of his outline was best organised mentally, but Greg's increasingly frustrated insistence that he couldn't critique a mental outline had finally sunk in. So it is that after dinner, Greg sits with a third glass of wine half-empty at his elbow, flipping through a stack of messily filled note cards. Across from him, Sherlock is still picking half-heartedly at his noodles, pretending to eat while he awaits a verdict. He's refilled his own wineglass once, but hardly touched it since.

"Well," Greg says at last, "I can't say I'm totally on board with the story you want to tell..."

Sherlock jams his chopsticks abruptly into the takeaway container, and crosses his arms over his dressing gown. " _Fine_ , fine; I won't use the one about John falling into the pond at Kew Gardens, even though _I_ thought it was by far the funniest. I'll just...talk about something from the blog, then! If he's written about it, it _must_ be fair game."

"Sure, I guess that'd be fine. Another thing: you should definitely take out this bit about the vicar's personal habits. I don't know _why_ you've still got that in there."

"It's _true_ , though!"

"Don't care. Take it out. In fact, I recommend you leave out everything you've written on this one!"

Sherlock plucks the card in question from his fingers with an aggrieved pout, but does in fact set aside the insults to the Church.

"Thank you." He shuffles through one more time, then taps them into a neat stack. "It's better. Really. I think you're on the right track; just needs a little polish in the transitions, now, and for you to fill in the blanks. You've got plenty of time to work on that."

With a pensive nod, Sherlock takes back the cards and tucks them away.

For a few minutes they sit and sip quietly at their wine, seemingly content with each other's company. Greg watches the lace curtains dance gently around the sliver of darkness in the still-open window; at the corner of his eye, he sees that Sherlock has turned in his seat to look towards the wall, where his detailed plans are tacked like unresolved clues.

There was a time, once, when Greg would have thought of a night like this as a rare treat—when he would have accepted almost any excuse to spend uninterrupted hours in Sherlock's presence, be they silent or shouting. Even now, when he has every right to be angry over losing his credit for the Waters bust and making an embarrassment of himself, Greg can't help but feel comforted and reassured by the other man's vital nearness. But it's impossible to ignore the sense of melancholy filling the room. It echoes in the words Sherlock's written out, in his sharp and slanted printing: _brave, wise, kind,_ words for the spectre claiming the armchair that sits empty behind him.

Greg knows he's a poor second choice. He feels no envy at the thought, now, only a tender, protective sorrow.

Eventually he clears his throat to break the foundering silence. "I have to say, I'm honoured that you've trusted me with this. It almost— _almost_ —makes up for your leaving me out of the stag do, last Saturday."

The attempt at good humour rouses Sherlock from his thoughts. "You had to work late, didn't you? Couldn't be helped, I'm sure," he tosses out, with a dismissive wave.

Greg snorts, rolling his eyes. "You did that on purpose, Sherlock, don't tell me you didn't!"

"Well, so what if I did?"

"Look, it's no skin off my nose." At least he'd gotten some satisfaction out of retrieving the two of them from the drunk tank, the next morning. "I like John, and I would've been glad to help celebrate. But it was your night, yeah? I understand."

" _Do_ you." It carries more weight than it's likely meant to; Sherlock's eyes skitter over Greg's shoulder, glancing off the empty chairs.

"Yeah, I think I do, actually," says Greg, pausing to take a final slow sip and let it bloom red in his mouth. "I know what it's like, caring about someone more than you can tell them. Letting them go, when you know you're not what they choose."

Sherlock's glare sharpens and settles on Greg for a long moment; his mouth opens and closes, but he doesn't voice the reflexive denial.

"In three weeks, this'll be done. You'll make it through," Greg tells him, gently, as he gets up to leave. He wishes he could offer more, some kind of solid assurance, but what else can he say? The man is getting _married_ , and Greg's listened to Sherlock talking around it for hours like a sore tooth, somehow managing to write and discuss an entire speech without once mentioning the word.

Maybe Greg had been right after all, years ago, when the months after the serial suicide case had found him on edge and watching for signs of trouble. He'd worried John would prove dangerous to Sherlock; he'd simply never guessed the danger would be this sort.

 

\-----

 


	18. Ties and Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tell him what you are. You'll know the moment."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks this week to [longhornletters](http://archiveofourown.org/users/longhornletters/pseuds/longhornletters) for commiserating with me over TSOT's illogical extras and their utter profusion of boutonnieres. :)
> 
> Also, a mildly embarrassing note - I've fixed a blunder I made all the way back in Chapter 3, in regards to the last name of Nadia's mother. Whether anyone would catch it is debatable, but for the eagle-eyed among you: Nadia's maiden name is Bernard; Elena, a widow, did _not_ return to her own maiden name (Antonescu). Oops. :)

  
**18\. Ties and Flowers**  


.

 

Greg misjudges the length of the cab ride, and arrives for the wedding almost embarrassingly early. He's not the first guest to step into the church, but it's a near thing.

Two ushers wait casually at the end of the aisle, while a young boy fidgets eagerly behind them. The taller man's strikingly pale eyes and thin scruff of ginger facial hair give him a boyish, mischievous look, while the other seems more studious with his dark goatee and receding hairline. Both appear to be somewhere in the vicinity of John's age, and are speaking quietly to each other with the air of old comrades; they seem disappointed to have to pause mid-sentence.

"Bride's side or groom's side?" asks the taller usher, and when Greg answers he turns and smiles down at the boy. "All right, groom's side; you can take this gentleman, Archie. Go on, now."

Archie is perhaps six or seven, and dressed in a dapper white vest and tie brocaded in violet swirls; his loose mop of curls is reminiscent of Sherlock around that age, but his wide brown eyes are sweet and guileless. He's quite intent on his duty, and clearly has been admonished not to scamper. To compensate, he leads the way towards the front of the right-hand pews at a careful pace that has Greg taking mincing steps to avoid tripping on him.

"You know my Uncle John," Archie states conversationally as they go. "Or, well, he's my cousin-once-moved. But Uncle's loads easier. Are you a doctor, too?"

"Yeah, loads easier," says Greg. "Actually, I'm a police detective. Your Uncle John helps me with my work, sometimes."

" _Cool_. Have you ever seen maggots?"

"I have, yes..."

The answer seems to please Archie greatly. Taking the aisle-side seat in the fourth pew, Greg eyes the boy speculatively as he returns to the ushers with a barely restrained skip in his step.

Lacking anything better to do with his time, he watches closely for the next fifteen minutes as more guests filter in. Among those being escorted to his side of the church, there are a few older couples, as well as some guests who are obviously much younger: evidence of the extended family with which John has kept minimal contact. A few male guests are greeted with back-slapping hugs from the pair of ushers, who've politely treated John's cousins like strangers; these must be friends from John's Army days, or possibly the university rugby team he'd mentioned once or twice. On the opposite side of the aisle, a more diverse crowd is arriving—not all of them know each other, but it's clear that some of them do at least a little, and there are at least two separate groups of acquaintances. School friends, then, and coworkers, present and past.

Even with the pews beginning to fill in with chattering people, this high-ceilinged cathedral rings with an airy, detached spaciousness. Perhaps its gilded carvings and stately stone columns are merely a pretty backdrop for the day's event, to the others here. But as Greg lets his focus drift from the wedding guests, he feels the old bones of the church looming over him, the sacred space pulling at him with its presence.

Despite his supposed connection with the divine, he'd stopped attending services many years ago. It hadn't seemed a good fit, somehow; all the time he'd spent in study had given him no good insight on how his peculiarity might relate to his own family's religion or any other. He prays often enough—if pleading and bargaining so directly with the source can be considered prayer. Here and now, he feels almost _too_ connected: it's like a tingling hum in his bones, a surreal sensation of floating, of being buffeted by strange pangs of emotion carried on stone echoes and the scent of musty hangings.

Over fifteen minutes yet remain until the ceremony when he comes back to himself somewhat, thanks to a distinctly physical need that's become apparent—regrettably, at fifty-one Greg's had to get used to his body's occasional urgent demands. By this time, Mrs Hudson and her date have taken seats beside him. They've been wrapped up in their own quiet conversation since greeting him, which has suited his increasingly dissociative mood just fine, but now he leans over to catch their attention as he stands.

"Just need to pop out for a minute," he says, clearing roughness from his throat. "Shouldn't be long."

Mrs Hudson smiles up at him. "Don't worry, Inspector, I'll save your seat for you!" She pats the spot just vacated by his backside and _winks_ , sending Greg's sense of reality a little further askew.

He hurries out to the church's empty side halls, searching for a restroom. He doesn't at all expect the near head-on collision when the groom bursts from a closed door.

" _Sorry_ —Greg!"

"John, hey, didn't see you coming." Greg steadies himself on the other man's arms for a second, recovering from the minor shock.

"You haven't seen Sherlock, have you?" John's suit is immaculate, but for his upturned collar and the ivory silk tie which hangs at loose ends along his lapels. His expression is distracted and anxious.

"What? No, should I have?"

"He was helping me, and I—I don't know, he just disappeared. Walked off mid-sentence."

"Ah, he won't have gone far, then," Greg assures him, scanning up and down the hallway. "I, uh, I was hoping to find a loo back here somewhere?"

John gestures over his own shoulder with his chin. "There's one in here. Come on; if Sherlock's done a runner, I could use you for a minute."

"Yeah, sure," Greg gladly agrees, following John into the little ready-suite. As promised, there's a small toilet room behind the dressing area; he takes care of his business quickly, then calls through the closed door as he washes his hands. "No backup groomsmen?"

"No."

John doesn't elaborate, even after Greg comes out to stand behind him. He's standing at the mirror, his dark blue eyes unreadable, jaw set as he manipulates the loose tie with twitching fingers; after a moment, his left hand drops and clenches, and he blows a frustrated breath through his nose.

"Here, then. Come on," Greg says, waving for him to turn around.

"I can usually—"

"I know. It's fine. I've been there, it's a hell of a thing." Greg tries to produce a reassuring smile, but he avoids eye contact as he steps close and takes up the pale silk.

"She's," John swallows something back and tries again; "she's good for me..."

Humming in answer, Greg works carefully through the crosses and tucks with only a slight hesitation here and there. (It's different, doing it for someone else. He never had a brother, or a son. His nephew grew up an ocean away.)

"She's safe," John says, more firmly; he wets his lips convulsively, throat bobbing above the tight shirt collar.

 _Safe?_ Greg's mind flashes to Nadia's deceptions, the way she'd twisted the knife on him at the end...on Sherlock's eyes, vulnerable and pained at the mention of John's angry homecoming welcome. He reminds himself, for the hundredth time, that his own limited perception of John's feelings isn't to be trusted. "You love her," he murmurs, not looking away from his working fingers.

"I do. Yes."

Was that a hesitation? Greg risks a quick glance up, but John's face gives away little but determination and anxiety. Both are understandable.

And it's a little late now to be wishing for more, isn't it?

Tugging the material down through the final loop, he slides the completed knot up snugly and pops John's collar into place. "I should be on my way back," he says, smoothing the tie down to tuck it into the fine buff-coloured vest and finishing up with a gentle pat over John's heart. "It's almost time, after all. Everyone out there's getting excited to see you."

"I hardly know most of those people, honestly," John admits quietly, turning in place to stare at himself in the mirror. He glances at Greg's reflection over his shoulder. "You'd think that'd make it easier, wouldn't you?"

"What, an audience of strangers? Dunno. But look, John—don't pay attention to them, today's not about _them_. Just relax, yeah? Eyes on the prize."

"Thanks, Greg," sighs John; his fingers hover around his collar, then drift over to graze the sprig of cornflower crowning his boutonnière. "Maybe I should've asked you to be a groomsman, after all."

"Mm, no. I think Sherlock's the best choice for you." With that mildly reproving comment, Greg turns to go; behind him, John makes a small sound of irritation and starts muttering to himself.

"Oh, the _tie pin_ , that's what I'm missing..."

Greg's watch reads six minutes to the hour; he opens the door to the corridor, only to come nose-to-nose with the best man. Sherlock rears to an abrupt halt, blinking at him; his expressive features cycle rapidly through surprise, suspicion, and apprehension before settling into a cautious blank.

They stand staring at each other while John continues to quietly narrate his hurried search. "...It was my grandfather's, I know I've got it here somewhere—fuck, where'd I put it?"

Sherlock carefully steps backwards and out of the way, his eyes still roving over Greg's face as if asking a question: _what have you told him?_

As Greg steps past, he reaches out to firmly squeeze Sherlock's shoulder, pressing a sympathetic pat onto his back with the other hand.

 _You can do this,_ Greg tells him silently, with a solemn nod, and Sherlock's eyes flicker away at last as he nods, too.

 

.

 

The ceremony is simple and pretty, a fairly standard run of prayers and readings and hymns, accompanied by what sounds like a concert-level organist. Mrs Hudson sniffles into her handkerchief during the vows; Greg keeps his hands tightly clasped in his lap. Sherlock's face twitches in visible annoyance at a few points in the sermon, but he stays quiet. He's quiet through the rest of it, too, but Greg can't be blamed for holding his breath during the call for objections.

Afterwards, the solemnity of the occasion dissolves into applause, crowned by a happy confusion of falling petals in the sunlight. The guests mill about, talking and laughing, while the formal photographs are taken; to Greg's surprise, John beckons him over for one of the posed shots.

"C'mon. You ought to have a place in these, Greg, I couldn't have done it without you—" Cutting himself off with a grin, John turns to snag the arm of a giggling blur passing them. "Archie, hey, don't run so fast! You skin your knee, and I'll have to answer to your mum _and_ the tailor."

"That's a great shot," the photographer calls out, waving at them from behind his tripod. "The four of you, there, all right? Just step a little closer in."

Greg obeys the direction with a glance towards Sherlock, whose serious expression could be carved from stone.

"You want a great shot, _here_ ," chuckles John; he seems oblivious to Sherlock's tension as he deposits his top hat onto his young cousin's curls, but Greg can't keep his focus from it.

He's not sure if he manages to really smile, himself, until the second photo, for which John impulsively plucks up the hat again and tosses it skyward. But nobody seems to notice.

 

.

 

At the reception hall, the little printed card marking Greg's place reads _G. LESTRADE_ , even though every other card he sees includes first names: another proof of Sherlock's hand in the preparations. Greg's not sure whether to feel grateful or perturbed at the fact that Molly's card is at the seat beside his. In an unplanned moment of reticence, he'd casually avoided proximity to her outside the church...but she's the closest friend he's got here, nevertheless.

He turns away from the prettily set table and strolls out to the gardens, where most of the guests stand chatting over champagne as the newlyweds mingle. Molly draws his eye right away; she stands alone beside the decorative concrete plinth at the centre of a round green, her yellow floral dress vivid in the sunshine.

She smiles and waves him over as he ambles closer. "Greg, hi!"

"Hi, Molly, you're looking lovely today. I was just inside, scoping out the seating; we're together, table three. So's Mrs Hudson."

"Oh! Thank you!" Her hand flutters up to the collar of her soft lemon-coloured cardigan, adjusting it around the spray of blooms pinned at her breast. "I'm glad they sat us together. It'll be nice to be with familiar faces."

"Sorry, I didn't think to save you a place by me at the church..." Honestly, he wouldn't have been able to focus on the ceremony if he had.

"It was fine, we got to meet John's great-uncle Clarence and hear all about the bicycle shop he owns in Leeds."

"Sounds terribly interesting," he says, his lips curving upwards to echo the sardonic half-smile with which she clearly communicates _it really wasn't_.

"Oh, _yes_ ; now I know all the specifications of the bicycle John's getting as his wedding gift. I must admit, I was _enthralled_ ," she says, stifling a giggle as he grins. "Is that a new tie, Greg? It really sets off your eyes..."

"Uh. Yeah? I mean, yes, Corrie sent it for my birthday."

Molly smiles wider at the mention of his sister. Before she can ask after his family, however, they're interrupted. Tom crosses the little green towards them, three glasses of champagne carefully held in the triangle of his long fingers. "Here we are, Molly," he says, cheerfully steadying them as she takes one; "I saw your friend with you, so I took the liberty of snagging another. Sorry, it's Detective Inspector...Lestrange, was it?"

"Lestrade," Greg corrects him. "Don't worry, I've heard worse. Good to see you again, Tom." He accepts a glass with a nod of thanks.

"For a second, I was worried I'd need to carry four glasses over here, to be polite," Tom laughs. "Don't know if I could've managed that! No date, then?"

"No," answers Greg.

Molly gives him a strange look, as if expecting him to say something more about it, but he's not about to apologise for being single. Neither does he feel compelled to explain why.

He lets Tom change the subject, and successfully participates in the conversation until his glass is empty, which provides a suitable excuse to go back inside. Molly and her fiancé follow, and by the time Greg's returned from the open bar, the two of them are getting cozy in front of the photographer, kissing for posterity. Suddenly, he's incredibly thankful for the beer in his hand.

 

.

 

After the meal, the best man's speech commences. At first it seems Sherlock's working from the cards as planned, and he gets a laugh from his audience in just the right place. Even though Greg already knows the punch line, he can't help chuckling along.

But then Sherlock runs directly off the rails. Instead of moving straight on to the bit about John's finer qualities, he throws in at least a third of the supposedly discarded insults, along with a few even more shocking comments. He brings that around, in a rather admirable chain of logic, to hit an emotional nerve that has John popping up to pull Sherlock into a tight hug—Molly and Mrs Hudson are clearly affected, and Greg's a little choked up too—but on the heels of that touching moment, Sherlock's off again, and Greg simply gives up trying to follow along in his head. The bones of the speech he'd helped structure do seem to be there, somewhere, but in the three weeks since Greg's intervention it appears to have mutated into a sprawling mess of tangents and tactless asides. And then, there's the matter of the "funny story" Sherlock had promised to choose from the blog, which spools out into two confusing case recaps complete with a rather embarrassing quiz aspect.

When the toast has been made at last, Greg nearly slumps over the table in relief that the only casualty had been a single smashed champagne flute; it could have been _worse_ , after all.

The feeling is short-lived, though; Sherlock isn't through yet. Suddenly he's vaulted the head table to pace the floor, babbling manically all the while. By the time he's moved on to loudly arranging a sexual conquest for the maid of honour, Greg has had just about _enough_.

As if he can sense the very moment Greg is ready to snap, Sherlock turns and says, "Geoff, the gents," fixing him with a strange look. Then he adds, more forcefully, "The loos, now, please."

In no mood to be amused by Sherlock's little running joke on his name, Greg very nearly growls his response: "It's _Greg_."

"The _loos_ , please," Sherlock repeats, gesturing with his head.

"Why?" asks Greg in pure exasperation, reaching into his pocket for the phone that's just signalled a message.

"Oh, I don't know," he retorts. "Maybe it's your turn!"

               Lock this place down.

As it turns out, it's incredibly surreal to experience the sensation of everything falling into place, while simultaneously feeling more confused than ever. Greg blinks at the message and hurriedly moves to stand. "Yeah, actually, now you mention it..."

At least if there's more of that interminable disaster of a speech, after that point, Greg doesn't have to sit and suffer through it.

 

.

 

Interestingly, finding out one of the guests has been stabbed is a sure-fire way to make any formal event twice as tiring. Greg's had a lot on his mind, what with coordinating with management to lock down the hotel, and then acting as impromptu liaison when the ambulance had arrived for John's friend, and then being forced to borrow a hotel employee's car to chase down and retrieve the wedding photographer, and finally arresting said photographer for two attempted murders. It's excusable, in a certain light, that he's not feeling entirely focused after all that.

But, excusable or not, he loses Sherlock. Not his finest moment.

At the reception, once the music kicks up loud, everyone trundles out onto the dance floor together. It's disorienting, for all that he's spent much of the evening with one eye (or, often, both) fixed on his charge, like there's been a little compass needle in his head spinning and shivering to follow Sherlock's magnetic north. The crowd, the laughter...it's _distracting_. Not least because Molly is there, tantalising and sweet and utterly, maddeningly unavailable.

He tries to keep out of her way; he tries to keep his attention on the happy couple—on the flickering candlelight and the colourful strobes—on _Sherlock_ —but it seems like she's everywhere he turns, a cheerful vision in yellow, one of his _best friends_ and god _damn it_ if he doesn't want to just push that ridiculous Tom bloke straight out the door...

Mrs Hudson asks him for a dance; Molly twirls laughing past them and nearly treads on his toe. The song is a popular one from the seventies that his Mum used to sing while she did the washing-up, and as the chorus brings a disorganised wave of cheers up through the dancing crowd, suddenly he's feeling even more maudlin. He can feel the social smile beginning to slip from his face, that last beer taking hold with a vengeance that's less relaxing than he'd hoped it would be. Luckily Mrs Hudson has had a bit to drink, as well, and she doesn't mind at all when he guides her back to Tom and Molly, and abruptly leaves her dancing with them.

When he weaves his way back to the edge of the dance floor, Greg glances back and is startled to see Molly looking his way—but, no, she's not seeing him. Her attention is caught by something else, maybe behind him, and he almost turns to see what—but her face under the coloured light is so lovely, he can't tear his eyes away.

It's not his finest moment.

And soon after that, he realises that Sherlock is gone.

 

.

 

Of course Greg is concerned for Sherlock. He lies awake half the night, in his flowery little room at the hotel, waiting for the man to answer his prodding text messages.

Are you okay?                              

Where have you gone?                              

If you want to talk                                
about it, I'm here.                              

Don't do anything                                
stupid, all right?                              

The sun wakes him; there hasn't been a reply, but there hasn't been a ripple either. When John finds him in the lobby at check-out time and asks after Sherlock, looking distinctly unsettled, Greg merely sighs.

"He's just gone off to get his head together, I'm sure. You know arranging all this took a lot out of him. Go on, now; Mary's waiting for you. Enjoy your honeymoon."

Greg is concerned, still, when he gets home and hasn't yet had a text. But he's expected at work that evening, and it turns out to be a busy shift; the next day is no better. At home on the third day, Greg notices the new post that Sherlock has put up on John's blog—it's cutting and rude, but Sherlock has been replying to the chain of comments below the post for the better part of two days.

 _He's at home, he's talking to people. It's not so bad,_ Greg tells himself. _If I were him, would I want to talk to me?_ Probably not. Greg certainly can't imagine wanting to sit down and have a chat with an overprotective older colleague about his own continued pining over Molly, and _she_ hasn't actually gotten married yet. Sherlock has every right to want some space; with this in mind, Greg decides he'll wait a week or so before trying to check up on him again.

But on the very evening he plans to visit Baker Street, an unexpected call comes in from his former mother-in-law.

"Elena, hello. We're still on for next weekend, right?"

"Greg— _O Doamne, este grav_..."

Greg's stomach drops sharply. Outside of conversation with her mother, she very rarely slips into Romanian. "What's wrong? Elena?"

"St Pancras Hospital. It's Mama. Please, come?"

"Of course. Of _course_ I will, God, I can be there in less than an hour, all right? How—" He has to stop and swallow past the tightness in his throat. "How bad is it?"

" _Nimic nu se poate face_ —nothing, they can do _nothing_ ," she says, and her voice is tight and clipped, held close around a wail she refuses to let out.

 

.

 

Greg makes only one important stop on his way to St Pancras. Any other plans he'd had are entirely forgotten. It's not exactly a surprise to be called to the hospital—Cosmina Ana Antonescu had turned ninety-eight that April, and it would be foolish to believe she could go on forever. But the knowledge of this inevitability doesn't make it any less a shock. Greg, and Elena, and Nadia and all the others close to the family—they've all been guilty of going quiet and nudging conversations around the unhappy subject, in silent mutual apprehension that speaking of a thing could make it true. Baba, on the other hand, has for years treated her mortality as a casual aside, laughingly acknowledging the fact of her advancing age.

Two weeks ago, she seemed _fine_. She made bean soup, and Elena served up sponge cake and tiny glasses of sweet wine, and together the three of them laughed over old stories for two hours. Had she shown signs? Had Greg missed them?

He arrives on the correct ward to find Elena standing in the corridor, wringing her hands and gazing into an open door. As she turns and sees him, he hurriedly sets his offering down on a waiting chair and opens his arms; she falls into them and clings to him for a few minutes.

"Mrs Bernard?" An unfamiliar voice interrupts Greg's low, soothing murmurings; they turn together to face the man and woman stepping into the hall. The doctor hesitates, looking at Greg.

Elena pulls herself straight and tall, and firmly states, "Dr Eckhardt, this is my son-in-law. Please, I ask that you explain everything to him."

Greg introduces himself and listens as closely as he can to the details of multiple failing organs, an irreversible domino effect with no apparent cause but age. Cosmina has been intermittently conscious, and has been communicative to an extent, but there's nothing to be done but keep her comfortable and wait...hours, or maybe a few days. The pronouncement leaves Greg hollow.

"Mama," he says, when they're alone again, "have you been able to reach Dia?"

"Yes, she is flying back from Italy early. It will be a few more hours, I think."

"All right, good; she'll make it in time, don't worry." He studies the tension in her small frame as she nods and looks away. "You're exhausted, Mama. Have you eaten? Go ahead and take some time for yourself, I'll stay here. It's okay."

Elena gives a half-hearted protest, but agrees to go. Greg watches until she turns the corner at the far end of the hall, and then he has no excuse to put it off any longer. Scooping up the gift he's brought, he cautiously steps through the door and closes it behind him.

The room is small, but amidst the tubes and wires and peeping monitors, the woman laid abed is far smaller. Her eyes are closed, her breath rasping and rattling in her chest. They've taken her customary kerchief; the fragile egg of her scalp is fully visible under her sparse scattering of bone-white hair.

He carefully sets the vase on the wide windowsill, angling it to be easily visible within the corona of light from the single fluorescent fixture above her head; the brighter ceiling lights have been shut off, leaving the edges of the room to shadow.

Lowering himself into the chair beside the bed, he takes up a silent, unhappy watch; it's perhaps five minutes before she opens her clouded, jaundiced eyes, rolling them sideways and slowly focusing on the shape of him.

"Greg." Her voice is barely audible, dry as fallen leaves. "My dear heart..."

"Hello, Baba," he croaks, clears his throat, then reaches down and takes her gently groping hand. "I've brought you flowers. A big bunch." It's actually two separate fat bouquets, crammed together into the widest vase the florist could offer him, an eye-popping riot of the brightest colours available; he wishes he'd bought more.

He'd bring her all the bright flowers in London, if he could.

"My... _special_ boy."

With those halting words the knowledge hits him like a hard kick to the gut— _this is my last chance._ It hurts, and his chest is tight when he whispers, "You—you knew. You told me I had a purpose. You always _knew_ my secret, Baba."

A slow blink, and a shake of her head so small he barely senses it.

"I tried to tell Dia about me, you know? Before the divorce. She didn't believe me, not really; she promised she'd never tell but I don't know—did she _say_ anything, to you? Or Mama?"

"...No."

He looks at the door. Elena won't be back for a while, surely. "I'm so sorry that I never told you. I'm so, so sorry, Baba. May I tell you, now?"

She smiles and moves her hand encouragingly in his.

Greg speaks haltingly, quietly, telling her everything that comes into his mind about his childhood and the gift and Sherlock, letting it burst free in disorganised impressions and small details instead of trying to force it all into bite-sized, logical points as he'd done for his ex-wife. He describes the sensation of losing his air, the free-fall twist of disorientation as his vision is overtaken. He attempts to explain the storm of conflicting emotions that fill him with every ripple: fear and anger, love and excitement and relief. With every pause for breath he flicks his eyes up to the closed door, still afraid of listeners.

He recounts his years of unsuccessful research into religion, as well as his obsessive focus during the time Sherlock was believed dead. He tells about the revelation of finding his uncle, and how beginning to share their knowledge between them had managed to raise more questions than it had answered. On and on he goes; when his voice breaks against certain memories—the dealer in Shoreditch, Moriarty, the fall—Baba twitches her thin fingers in his palm, reassuringly. She doesn't attempt to speak much, but she watches him intently, her eyes roving over his face in clear comprehension, and every now and then she makes a throaty little sound in response.

Eventually Greg trails off, and stops, the words drying up all at once. He strokes a hand over his lips and is surprised to find that his cheeks are wet.

Baba Cosmina visibly gathers herself to tell him something, drawing a long, hoarse breath, but when she speaks it's in the language of her birth. _«Spune-i ce ești. Vei ști momentul.»_

It's the most words she's spoken at once, and he gets the feeling he'll have no more from her; pulling his hand temporarily away from hers, he whips the little ever-present notepad from his breast pocket and scratches down a phonetic approximation. Then he repeats it as best he can, hesitating over the spots where he thought he'd heard diacritical marks, and eventually earns a heavy blink in affirmation.

"Thank you. For—for _everything_. _Te iubesc_ , Baba."

He leans in and presses long, gentle kisses to her forehead, and her cheek. As he sits back, the door opens behind him. Cosmina smiles vaguely up at her daughter, and says nothing, but squeezes Greg's hand before he lets it go.

Four long and upsetting days later, when the lingering end of Baba's course has been run at last, he remembers the note on his pad: not her last words, but her last advice to him.

He carries the notepad with him, untouched, through the three days' wait before the funeral. The awareness of Cosmina's voice, riding along in the pocket by his heart, is a comforting sort of pain: he isn't ready to know if her statement translates to a blessing or a warning. It isn't until long afterwards, when he's alone at home, cocooned in the late-night quiet of his windowless spare room, that he looks up the words.

"Tell him what you are. You'll know the moment."

 

\-----

 


	19. All Fall Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He waits 'til the second ring, takes a deep breath and tries his hardest to sound normal. "Hey, John. What's up?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, I play fast and loose with the reality of train schedules. Let's just say "why not" and roll with it. :P

  
**19\. All Fall Down**  


.

 

After the funeral is over with—after cleaning up the luncheon, thanking Elena's sympathetic neighbours, and muddling through one last stilted, awkward conversation with his ex-wife...Greg wants nothing more than to get away.

The obvious choice is a long weekend in Bristol. His usual plan involves an evening or two of catching up with Alex and a few of the old crew from his school days, while he spends most of his days hanging about the house, finding odds and ends to do for his mother. It's a common and comforting way to get a short break from work. This time, though, he doesn't even let Alex and the guys know he's coming. Three or four days with nothing but Mum's company sounds like just the thing.

She welcomes him, of course, and by the end of supper he's got a list of projects that need his attention. Unwilling to dwell on the state of things in London, he throws himself into the tasks with single-minded focus over the next two days.

"Mum," he says on the second afternoon, from atop a ladder in the front hall, "what are you doing, still out here all alone?"

"Oh, tut. You and Corrie, the pair of you. Forever worrying. I manage quite nicely on my own, and you know it."

He pauses and leans over to look down at her pointedly, holding the new light bulb in clear view.

"You _do_ realise, Greg, that this to-do list has been crafted solely for your benefit? If I truly need something done, four of your old classmates and at least a dozen neighbourhood children are ready to fight for the chance to help." Mum crosses her arms and smiles up at him fondly. "Honestly, it's like you think I don't know my own boy wants to feel useful!"

"All right, all right. Point taken," he chuckles, reaching overhead again to finish his task.

She steadies the ladder for him as he comes down, and takes the old bulb from him to bin it; wiping his hands on his jeans, he follows her to the kitchen. The rich aroma of the roast in the oven has already spread pleasantly through the house.

"What if something happens, though?" It's a terrible question, but he can't help asking. "Can I count on Alex and the neighbourhood kids to get you to hospital, and to call me and Cor? I can't stand the thought that you might be stuck here alone when you need real help."

"I have a mobile phone," she reminds him, giving a stir to her simmering vegetables. "And I trust Alex and Paul as much as I trust you. Just so we're clear, are you trying to convince me to move into London, or are you angling for permission to move back in here with me? Because I've always told you, you can pack it in and come home anytime."

" _Mum_ ," he protests, rolling his eyes; she must have expressed that exact sentiment hundreds of times, in the first few years after he'd gone away to join the Met. "No, I'm _not_ planning on moving back. And with my job the way it is, I don't know if London is a good idea for you, either..." He sighs heavily, crossing into the dining room and slumping into a chair there. "I'm sorry," he says, staring down at the aged grain of the heavy oak table, gouged and dented through decades of use. "I don't mean to be paranoid. It's just...been a rough few weeks."

"Oh, Greg, love." The spoon clicks on the worktop, and then Mum's arms are snaking around his shoulders from behind. He leans into the hug, letting her rest her soft cheek against his, and she says, "I see your point, dear, and I know I've been a stubborn old cow. Look, when you and I fly over to New York at Christmas, and the whole family's together, I promise you we'll all have a serious talk, all right?"

"Really?"

He feels her shrug against his back, before she gives him one more tight squeeze and lets go. "I always supposed I'd either give this house to your sister, or wind up emigrating someday. You know, it really looked like Patrick was going to have a chance to relocate the family, for a while there..."

"I know, yeah, when the kids were still little. He told me it was a secret, though," Greg says, raising a quizzical eyebrow at her as she perches on a seat across from him.

"Well, never you mind how I knew! But Gaby's eighteen, now, and she's just started university; maybe now that both birdies have flown the coop, they'll want to think about coming back over? Not for a couple years yet, certainly, but I think Corrie might be tempted. She loves this old wreck of a house. And she worries even more than you do."

A soft snort of laughter escapes Greg at that. "Does she? That'd be a feat."

"No," Mum intones with comedic gravitas, "the difference is she's only worried about _me_. You, my darling boy, worry about _everything_. Now, then! Go, and wash up for dinner!"

"Yes, Mother," he sing-songs, catching her arm as he stands and leaning down to kiss her cheek.

 

.

 

The early morning train back to London is fairly full, but Greg finds a seat in the very back and somehow manages to keep an empty seat beside him. Perhaps that's merely evidence that he's still wearing a distinctly saturnine expression, projecting an aura of _back off_ despite the restorative effects of his visit. Whatever the reason, he'll gladly accept solitude for the duration of the trip.

He's taken advantage of his holiday time and his recent bereavement to completely ignore work for nearly a fortnight. But he'll be going back in tomorrow, just in time for the weekly briefing. It would probably be for the best to get a handle on things, now, and avoid having to rely on Sally's colourful, acerbic commentary to bring him up to speed at the last minute.

There aren't really any important phone messages for him to return, as it turns out—the Yard has an effective system in place for routing calls away from absent officers—but a number of emails have piled up while he's been away. Frowning at his phone, he works through them one by one as the sun rises, forwarding some to Sally and Evan for clarification, composing replies to others.

About halfway through the journey, while drafting a message to Evan, Greg actually finds himself unironically typing, _When you eliminate the impossible_ ; he stops short, staring at the screen in wry amusement. That peculiar phrase can hardly be read without hearing Sherlock's keen, rolling baritone echoing in his mind.

_I've been watching you so long, you've bloody infected me,_ he thinks, shifting his thumb to begin deliberately tapping at the backspace. _I must really be missing you, though; I don't usually talk like you..._

It's been four weeks, today, since the wedding. Obviously, with everything that's happened lately, Greg's well overdue to make that visit to Baker Street he'd planned. But the thought of doing so has barely crossed his mind, when a sudden tightness seizes his chest.

_Damn it, that wasn't an invitation!_

Startled, he flips his collar up quickly with his free hand, leaning into the window with the coat hitched up around his face as he begins to wheeze. Hopefully nobody has noticed his move; if he's lucky, it'll seem like he's snoring...

Then there's no more time to worry over it, because the train is gone, replaced in his sight by a large and dimly lit room.

He scans over it quickly from above, and finds it disgusting: grey and squalid, laid about with old, blanket-piled mattresses on the floor and a broken-down selection of mouldering armchairs likely pulled from skips. Its occupants vary in age and gender, but they share a listless silence as they inhabit their personal seclusions.

_Tell me you're here to confront someone, to have someone arrested,_ Greg pleads, clinging to illogical hope as he floats closer. _Anything, just not—_

His hope is crushed almost immediately. Sherlock lies curled on his side on the pallet farthest from the others, facing a wall of boarded windows that drip torn plastic sheeting like old snakeskin. A readied syringe is laid at the edge of his reach, and he's staring at it intently. His hands are hidden, pulled up into the sleeves of a ratty hoodie and folded near his chest.

_No, Sherlock,_ Greg moans silently. _Oh no, not this. Please._

Sherlock's eyes are clear and seem fairly lucid, although he has the dazed, floating look of someone still coasting off a high—as Greg watches, he slips a shaking hand out of his tattered sleeve. His fingertips creep across the mattress in front of him slowly, as if daring the syringe to disappear or run away.

Sherlock's weighing the options, and coming to a decision. And because Greg can't breathe, he knows the decision is about to be the wrong one.

Greg tries to rouse the teenaged boy on the nearest pallet, but it's no use—he already knows from experience that impairment interferes with the ability to be effectively _pushed_. The other four people in the room are no better. Having tested them all without success, he circles outward, homing in on each presence he senses along the way and trying to find some poor junkie between hits.

Just as he's swirling his eyes down the last staircase towards the ground floor, Greg sees abrupt movement below. Two men are having a confrontation at the far end of the decrepit, graffiti-covered entry hall, one slamming the other forcefully into the wall and kicking his feet out beneath him in a decisive, military move.

_Finally,_ Greg thinks with relief, _someone who's not off his arse!_

Terse words are being exchanged, but before he can swoop in close enough to hear, the man on the floor shows his palms in a clear gesture of defeat, giving an answer that appears to satisfy. The victor stands abruptly, striding through the shadowed stairwell and up towards the first landing, where Greg's awareness hovers by a haphazardly boarded window. When the man's face comes clear in a shaft of sunlight, Greg's sense of relief is even more pronounced.

_John! Thank God. However you knew about this, wish you'd been here sooner..._

John starts out on what's clearly about to be a thorough search of the crack house; Greg can tell by his bearing that he intends to sweep every room and hallway in the upper floors, but Greg's already done that. It's easy to _push_ him just enough to skip the fruitless search, saving John's time by sending him straight up to the second floor and into the dingy room with its grubby piles of bedding. He doesn't do anything beyond that—he knows it's unnecessary; where John is concerned, Sherlock's safety _always_ takes precedence—but when John walks in, he doesn't call the name Greg's expecting.

"Isaac? Isaac Whitney?"

Without sparing a glance for the shabby figure facing the far wall, he crouches down and speaks to the boy slumped against the wall on the next bed over.

"...Isaac? Hello, mate. Sit up for me? Sit up," John urges the boy, gently helping him upright.

If Greg could have a facial expression here, he knows his jaw would be dropped in shock. As it is, he's certain his jaw is dropped anyway, but only in his body's faraway struggle for oxygen.

But even considering Greg's apparent miscalculation, it's enough; Sherlock has stopped his advance on the needle at the approach of footsteps, and is turning his head to follow the familiar cadence of John's voice. As he rolls and raises himself awkwardly on his elbow, the syringe is dislodged by his movement and tumbles off the mattress, out of sight.

The last thing Greg sees as air and light rush back to him is the shocked turn of John's head as Sherlock speaks: "Ah, hello, John..."

" _Fuck_ ," Greg gasps on his first deep inhale, jerking upright and rolling his eyes about apprehensively; one woman seated opposite in the next row forward sends a single glance his way, but she doesn't seem to have been disturbed.

The phone is still clutched in his hand. When he looks down he finds that the touchscreen has recorded a three-line block of gibberish, while he's lurched insensibly along with the train's rocking; the epic length of the keysmash has overwhelmed the device's autocorrect function, leaving intact an utterly unpronounceable mess.

It expresses his general mood rather accurately, he thinks.

 

.

 

It takes a great deal of restraint not to immediately start ringing Sherlock's phone, or John's. He sits tensely through the last twenty minutes of the ride, storming off at the station as if his train has personally offended him, and then makes his way home in a fog of bewildered anger. His flat is too quiet, and seven thirty is far too early in the day to be wishing for a drink (or, worse, a smoke; the last thing he needs is to be starting down _that_ road again), so he doesn't stick around for long.

Instead he changes into jogging clothes and goes out to the park, in an attempt to channel his energy into something at least mildly productive. At first it seems like it might be working to clear his head, but then he turns the corner. The wall is still there, of course, its graffiti faded but still legible over two years later: _We Believe In Sherlock_.

Greg puffs to a halt before it and stares for a moment, baring his teeth. "We bloody _believe_ ," he mutters, spurring himself on faster to put the scrawl of yellow paint behind him.

_I believe in Sherlock being smarter than this! For God's sake, we've been through all this before; he knows I fucking care! Couldn't he have talked to me about it? And how long has this shit been going on, anyway? If I hadn't given him his space, if I hadn't dropped everything for Baba—would I have even made a difference?_

His phone rings in his pocket, startling him, and he breaks stride by means of tripping over the air. Caught up in his whirling thoughts, he'd sped up significantly; after he comes to a clumsy stop at the side of the path, he answers between loud huffs of breath.

"...'Lo...sorry, jogging...Molly?"

"Greg, oh. I'm sorry to interrupt you, but—" She sniffles audibly.

"What's wrong?"

"Sherlock and John have just been here. John had me run a drugs test!"

_Good,_ he thinks, viciously; he barely catches himself from saying it aloud. "Really? On Sherlock?"

"Yes! And it came back positive. _Strongly_ positive," she tells him.

Greg doesn't bother to hold back the colourful string of curse words; they've been waiting for an audience for at least an hour, now. To her credit, Molly doesn't seem at all fazed by his profanity.

"And then I—well! You know I just hate being the bad guy, Greg!"

"Yeah, I know." There's a bench nearby. He makes his way towards it, limping just a little. Maybe exercising while angry isn't the best idea, after all. "So, you told John the results?"

"John, and Mary, and some junkie pal of Sherlock's was there, too—Oh, it was awful! I wish you'd been there, Greg, you can't imagine the way Sherlock looked—I never imagined he could look like that..."

Greg can't find words for a response; he saw it, too. His free hand clenches over his thigh as he hums _go on_.

"I was so— _furious_ with him—the _nerve_ of him, wasting his mind like that—I told him off before John could even do it!"

"Well, I don't blame you," he says. "If I'd been there, I'd have done just the same!" _Or worse, probably. Guess I should be glad I wasn't._

"More than that. I actually slapped him across the face, _twice_ —"

"Yeah? Good!"

"—and because God forbid he show a speck of decency when he's feeling exposed, he took _that_ as his opportunity to deduce in front of everyone that I've broken it off with Tom!"

_This_ is news. "Have you?! Oh—I'm sorry," he says, quickly smoothing over his shock with sympathy. "Molly. What happened?"

Her voice wavers and dips to a mumble in the aftermath of her emotional outburst. "Oh, it was—I just—it's nothing."

"It's not nothing! Come on, you were so _happy_. Did he cheat on you? I swear to God, Molls, I'll kick his arse if he hurt you..."

"You can forego the arse-kicking, Greg, it's okay," she says, and he can hear the smile trying to break through. "It was my decision. He and I weren't a good fit, that's all."

Greg agrees, of course. He hadn't been predisposed to a good opinion of the man anyway, but Tom's overenthusiastic and obtuse contribution to the audience participation segment of Sherlock's wedding speech had made him physically cringe. (His own theory hadn't been all that great, admittedly—he hadn't expected to be put on the spot. But he could at least argue that dwarfism _exists_.) Nobody as brilliant and strong as Molly Hooper should be saddled with someone so witless.

"I'm sorry, Molly," he tells her, sighing, and despite his distaste for Tom, he finds that he does really mean it. "You deserve to be truly appreciated. Someday, you're gonna find someone who really lets you shine."

She makes a tiny sound that he interprets as a laugh, or at least a smile. "Promise, Greg?"

"Promise." The wind kicks up, rapidly cooling the sweat from his run, and he shivers. "Hey, I think I need to get back to this, it's getting chilly out here. Thanks for telling me what happened with Sherlock, though, I really appreciate that. If I hear anything else I'll let you know, okay?"

"Okay. But. _Don't_ tell them I told you," she says suddenly. "I mean—it just seems like it's not my place?"

"No, I get it, Molls. Don't worry, I won't say a word about it," he assures her, pinching fingers at the bridge of his nose. _That's another thing to keep track of, then._

Keeping Molly's call under wraps means he'll have to act as if he _still_ doesn't know about the drugs. But if there's one thing he's well-practised at, it's making mental maps of _who knows what, and what can be said_...quietly keeping his assumed ignorance intact through careful deception.

And what's one more secret, anyway, among friends?

 

.

 

Over the next few hours, Greg waits in vain for another call. John knows, surely, that Greg is invested in Sherlock's well-being; that should be reason enough for him to keep Greg in the loop, but lunchtime comes and goes with no word.

Later in the afternoon he gives up on waiting and calls John himself, pasting a jovial, unaware veneer over his voice to casually invite the doctor out for a drink. He wants desperately to know how Sherlock had come to be in that awful place, and why John had been searching for the _other_ young man, whoever he is, and what had happened after they'd left Molly's lab—he hopes that his offer of company and a sympathetic ear might gain him at least a little information.

But John is evasive—clearly coming off a confusing upset, which surprises Greg not in the least—and says he can't make it.

"I've got plans tonight, actually," John admits, clearing his throat nervously. "With Sherlock, so. Another time, perhaps?"

Greg knows he can't press the issue. It's a familiar frustration, knowing too much and not enough and almost never having a plausible explanation for either the knowing or the asking. He forces his gritted teeth apart. "Yeah, John. I look forward to it."

He ends up going to the pub for a few hours anyway, figuring he might as well; if anything, he needs a mental reset before he goes back in to the Yard tomorrow. He'd like nothing better than the opportunity to wash away at least a little of the memory of this morning. The look on Sherlock's face, that raw, bleak indecision... _Christ_.

_I didn't realise it had got so bad! Why didn't I think to watch him more closely?_

A little after seven o'clock, he gives up on using the proximity of strangers as a distraction and sets out to walk home. Outside, the sunset is squeezed beneath looming clouds, snuffing itself into darkness more quickly than the early autumn warrants; it suits Greg's sombre mood. In the brisk chill of the air, it isn't long before he's sobered up almost completely, but as he walks he's making big plans for a bottle he's got stashed in his television cabinet.

Then the air around him disappears, between one breath and the next, and all thoughts of indulgence are forgotten. Greg staggers into the nearest narrow alleyway as the ripple pulls him down hard.

The scene is so different than that of only twelve hours before that Greg can hardly make sense of it. He's spent most of the day mired in memories of that filthy crack house, and of the cramped, seedy flat the younger Sherlock had shared with addict friends in Shoreditch; it's as if his mind is actively attempting to reject the sight of such a pristine room, gleaming with chrome and mirrors and a vast expanse of night-black window glass.

Greg begins the vision at one wall, looking out at the large room from behind two figures. Closest to him, a man cowers on his knees, hands raised; two paces ahead and facing away from him, a figure clad in all black stands poised to shoot. The gun is aimed squarely at Sherlock, who stands straight and tall at the opposite end of the room—as impeccably groomed as if the morning's near-overdose had never happened—wearing a look of quiet shock.

"So, what do you do now?" The question comes from the kneeling man, asked in a hesitant, lilting accent as he looks between the black-clad intruder and Sherlock with a strange mixture of apprehension and interest. "Kill us both?"

Before the second question is uttered, Greg has followed his initial instinct and jumped into the hostage—the mind he finds is cold, distinctly unsavoury, and weirdly _crowded_ somehow; it's a sensation Greg has never experienced. He has to resist the urge to squirm away, pausing for the clench of a single slow-motion heartbeat to remind himself that this is _nowhere_ near the darkest mind he's touched.

From the hostage's viewpoint behind the confrontation, Greg can see a mobile phone, dropped on the plush carpeting, very nearly within reach. If only the right moment comes along—the vulnerable position on the floor presents a disadvantage, but could also afford him an opportunity to move.

_Do it,_ he instructs decisively, _first chance you get. Call for help, fast as you can!_ He feels the stranger twitch in that direction, flicking cautious eyes back to the hostile intruder, and knows his command will be obeyed. Repulsive he may be, but this man seems to bear little desire to actually see Sherlock killed.

As he lifts himself up and out, Greg means to turn and see the face beneath that black knit cap...but the sense of _not enough, do something, now_ is tingling along his nerves. Almost before he realises he's moving, his view has shifted past the frozen tableau and is swirling out into the clean, modern hallways beyond the room. Here he finds a coolly lit stairwell, leading down to a spacious, high-ceilinged office area, furnished in expensively minimalistic style.

He swoops down past one burly guard—unconscious—and finds another wide office beyond, where a dark-haired woman in a tight dress lies face down on the floor. She's unconscious, too.

_What the bloody fuck has been happening here?_ thinks Greg, riding on the dizzy edge of his own faraway struggling for breath, more frantic with each passing moment of slowed time.

He senses movement from around the corner. Someone's running water, in what's presumably the loo; the door opens as Greg turns in that direction. It's John, with a filled glass and a wet fingertip towel, and he's on his way back to the woman, obviously intending to see about her head wound...

Greg makes a beeline to him, reaching out for the familiar touch— _No, John, pay attention, get upstairs—_ but before that urgent thought can find its purchase to _push_ , his awareness snaps back abruptly to the first room, and he hears only two words from Sherlock's mouth, spoken softly and with gentle assurance:

"You won't."

A tiny noise follows close on the heels of his statement, the chilling, muted _thwip_ of a silenced gunshot—and Greg's vision narrows precipitously, a sharp ringing rising in his ears that blocks out all other sound.

_Oh God, oh God Sherlock, no_

Fire lances through Greg's chest, as if a bullet has torn straight into him as well. There are brief jolts of pain—one at his shoulder, one at his knee—he can't see anything at all but the blood staining Sherlock's shirt, and the stunned look on Sherlock's face as he falls, his eyes fluttering delicately closed.

_please no, Sherlock, don't do this to me, I can't_

A hand pulls Sherlock's coat from the wound, John's voice speaks; it's barely audible under the clangour of alarm bells jarring Greg's bones apart.

_what can I do, God, what can I DO, don't go, no no no_

There's no air. The air is gone, there will never be air again to pull into Greg's lungs.

_no_

Flashes of colour sparkle and fizz across his retinas. A sharp pain blossoms in his cheek; finally, the utter lack of oxygen overwhelms the vision and he blacks out entirely.

 

.

 

When Greg comes to, he's lying on his side in the dark, deserted alley, his cheek mashed into the pavement. He's wheezing and gulping, dragging dirt and grit along with his thin, rattling breaths into lungs that ache and sting, and his head is pounding as if he's been repeatedly kicked.

At first, he's too dazed to even understand why—his body is too overwhelmed by pain to process logical thought, beyond the instinct to push himself upright and collapse against the rough brick of the wall behind him.

He heaves sour-tasting air in, coughs it out, trembles and blinks the lingering black spots from his vision, makes painful attempts to draw a full breath again and again until his lungs seem to have got the knack once more.

_Never been this bad,_ is the first conscious thought Greg's mind throws out—and then all at once, the memory rushes back in and he's choking on it.

He wraps his arms around his bruised knees, and cries for a long time.

 

.

 

Greg has brushed himself off as best he can, and smeared the tears from his face; he's certain he looks as shit as he feels, but it's enough to get him into a cab without more than a few odd glances. He holds it together until he's dropped off outside his flat, then he trudges inside and lets loose a few more silent, lurching sobs with his back braced against the door. Then he goes about the necessary business, strips and showers—and if he cries just a little more, to get it out of his system, he can hardly even tell beneath the pounding spray, anyway.

When he's finished, he feels like he's been run over by a train. He wants the comfort of tracksuit bottoms and a soft T-shirt, but instead he methodically dresses in a fresh suit.

That done, he sits on the sofa and stares numbly into space as he waits for his phone to ring. It does, within ten minutes: perfect timing. He waits 'til the second ring, takes a deep breath and tries his hardest to sound normal.

"Hey, John. What's up?"

 

\-----

 


	20. Safety Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When at last he looks up again, her eyes are on his, confused. "Greg...what was that, about Sherlock?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [kestrel337](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337) for talking me through a wibbly spot for this chapter. <3

  
**20\. Safety Off**  


.

 

Greg walks into the hospital, unsure how he's managing to keep his knees from collapsing; from the moment he steps into the reception area, he's finding it difficult to breathe. It's not a ripple, though, not at all; he can move, he can see. But the air seems like glue, somehow, reluctant and sluggish; his eyesight has gone very slightly grey at the edges, and too bright in the middle.

He asks the desk nurse where to go, hearing his own voice as if from a distance. A long hallway, a crowded lift, another short walk: he moves, he keeps moving, he forces his limbs and lungs to drive him on. Then he sees John up ahead, pacing back and forth with arms tightly crossed; John turns, and notices him, and pauses long enough for him to approach.

"Greg," he rasps, his eyes fixed on the floor.

"What's happening?"

"He's in surgery. We won't know anything until—it's going to be touch and go. The bullet—" John's face creases miserably, but his voice is low and steady, nearly emotionless, as he drops into the territory of his medical training. "I got a good look at the entry wound, before the paramedics arrived, but there wasn't a lot I could do. It will have hit the liver, and probably at least nicked the inferior vena cava, which—well, it's a risky situation, both in terms of blood loss and shock. Surgery can't even begin unless they've managed to get him stabilised—that could take a while, his heart already stopped once in the ambulance..."

Greg sways on his feet and blinks away a distracting flare in his view. "But, he has a chance?"

"Definitely. Yes," John says, firmly but not very convincingly. He looks up at last. "Thanks for getting here so quickly."

"Yeah, 'course," Greg answers, dragging in a sticky lungful of air. _Focus._ "You've been here all alone, so far?"

John nods. "Mycroft's probably coming within a few hours, there was some big government thing going on but his assistant said he'd be trying to wrap it up early. And Mary just went out of town this afternoon to visit a friend. I left her a message to call me, soon as she can."

"How long was she meant to be away?" Greg tries to picture John's wife, and comes up with only a vague image of the chipper blonde in her wedding dress. Aside from the wedding, he's really only met her twice in total, and then just briefly.

"Tuesday morning, early. I'll just ask her to come straight here from the station, assuming—"

 _Assuming we're still here by then. Assuming Sherlock's still alive._ Another bright pulse flickers in and out, momentarily obscuring John's grimace. He forces his lungs to fill.

"Greg?" A thread of concern colours John's voice. "Are you okay?"

"Fine. 'M fine," he insists. "Just...a little dizzy."

"Sit down. Sit. You've got a nasty bruise coming up on your cheek here, you know that? Let me see."

Pressing his lips together, Greg allows John to guide him to a nearby chair. "Um. I slipped. In the tub. Trying to reach the phone when you rang," he says lamely, wincing at the illogical lie as the doctor touches gentle fingers to his face.

But John is still obviously reeling from the night's events, himself, and doesn't seem to notice how improbable it is that Greg's arrived here so speedily after a fall in the bath. His only response is, "Well, at least you don't seem to have a fracture. Are you having trouble breathing?"

Greg's stomach clenches in automatic panic. _No. No._ "Better, now I'm sitting," he lies. "Bit of a shocker, all this..."

"Yeah," sighs John, settling back in the seat beside him. After a long minute's silence, during which Greg makes a concerted effort to breathe the strangely thickened air as smoothly and quietly as possible, he says, "You haven't even asked how it happened."

"I figured we'd be here long enough that you'd be getting to that," Greg replies slowly, sitting forward with elbows braced on his knees. "When you were ready." God, but he feels _drained_. This can't be right.

John rubs tired fingers into his eyes and begins to recount the day from his perspective. Greg listens as carefully as he can, grateful for every scrap of knowledge confirmed and explained...but as he learns about the blackmail mastermind Magnussen, and about Sherlock's improbable plan to infiltrate the man's private office, part of him remains worriedly focused on his physical self, trying to analyse sensations unlike anything he's experienced before.

Is this an aftereffect of having passed out in the alley? A head injury from the fall, or brain damage from oxygen deprivation? If the latter, that would be surprising; not even his hours of drained unconsciousness after stopping Moriarty at the pool had resulted in anything more than sore muscles and a headache. He's always presumed that the forces providing his gift had also compensated somewhat for its physical demands.

Or could this silent light show be a manifestation of his failure—for it was a real and certain failure, this time, no faked leap here—either a warning that the life he guards is about to end, or a draining off of his gifted energies in the wake of a death already final?

 _Please, no. Give him another chance to live,_ Greg prays. _I'll do better. I promise._

"Magnussen wouldn't explain what happened," John is saying, exhaustion warring with frustration in the words he directs towards the ceiling. "It clearly wasn't _him_ running about and knocking out his own staff, and he was still on his knees when I came in..."

Greg stares down at his clasped hands, fascinated and quietly horrified by the pulsing trails of light that dance around his fingers, flaring and fading. His lungs feel coated in glue.

"—but he _knows_ , damn it! That vile fucking fireplace-pissing bastard knows who _did_ this, and if I try and get any more out of him he'll just turn around and press charges for our break-in..."

_I'll give anything. Take me, take all I have, please, just let him survive!_

Greg's eyes are tightly shut as John trails off; he's aware that he's missed making an expected response, but the lights are so _bright_ even behind his eyelids, and he's dizzy and weak— _please, God, please_ —and then, all at once, the pressure lifts away.

His eyes fly open, his head snaps up. A deep, cool rush of antiseptic-scented air fills his lungs. _Sherlock!_

The surgeon doesn't come out to give John the good news for another forty minutes, but Greg already knows.

 

.

 

One wait is traded for another, as the night drags on. Mycroft makes his promised appearance within the hour, striding in to exert control with ramrod-straight posture and a voice that could cut glass; it's no surprise to Greg that the hospital staff go out of their way to satisfy him. God only _knows_ what would have happened, if Sherlock hadn't pulled through.

As Mycroft makes his presence felt in the surgical wing, he hardly pauses to acknowledge the others in the little waiting area. John receives only a grave utterance of "Dr Watson," which seems to Greg like a denouncement of the evening's misadventure, more than anything else; in contrast, Greg barely even rates a vague nod. There's a flutter of activity in the hall as the team of doctors handling Sherlock's care assembles for a private conference with the elder Holmes. Shortly after the meeting begins, his brunette assistant appears.

"Dr Watson," she says, "Mr Holmes would like to offer you the opportunity to sit in."

She directs John to the correct room, then returns and seats herself a little distance away from Greg, crossing her ankles demurely. Though it's nearly eleven, the hazel eyes locked on her phone don't seem tired.

Greg sits in silence for a few minutes, testing out names as he fidgets. _Hazel, then, to be fitting. No, sounds like a rabbit. Phoebe?_ Unlike the unflappable, nameless woman, he's exhausted, but the transformative experience of feeling Sherlock pulled back from near-death has filled him with a strange, almost manic energy. It would be impossible to sleep, were he to go home now.

But what else can he do? The immediate danger is passed, as far as Greg has been able to gather, and visiting hours are long over. It's thanks to Mycroft, of course, that John has been granted the privileges of a relative from the start of tonight's ordeal, in regards to patient information. As Sherlock's former flatmate and publicly avowed best friend—as the partner who'd seemed to mourn his unexpected loss as keenly as a widower—as the man for whom Sherlock so clearly cares, John is deserving of the honour. Greg has no such credentials.

He stands stiffly to get his coat. _I'll stick around 'til John comes out, and see what he says; then I'll go,_ he decides.

"You're on the list, Inspector," the woman says mildly, not looking up.

"What?"

She makes a few purposeful jabs at her device's screen, then holds it out for him to see: _Special 24-Hour Visitors Access Permitted_.

"Oh," Greg says. It's the most eloquent response he can manage. John heads the very short list, but Greg's own name is right below.

"In fact," she adds, pulling the phone back and doing some more rapid magic with her thumbs, "they're just about ready in the room, now. I have permission to take you up, since the others are still busy..."

"I. Um." He clutches at the coat over his arm, still flummoxed. "Before...?"

"Mr Holmes has already been in with him, before he was moved. Don't worry, the meeting won't be much longer."

So it goes that Greg is the first to sit down in Sherlock's private room.

It feels—momentous. Surreal. _Undeserved_. Crushing, almost, an immovable knot of tightness in his throat; the weight of everything that's happened closing in on him, the whole world narrowed down to wires and tubes and steady, slow beeps. For long minutes Greg stares, and bites his lip, and reminds himself to breathe, reminds himself that he _can_.

When the door opens and slow footsteps approach behind him, he shakes himself out of his absorption and turns, blinking.

"He's alive," he tells John, unnecessarily, his voice clutching over the words with a harsh click.

"Yeah." It comes out in a long sigh, as John steps up beside the bed; he stands over Sherlock's pale, still figure, one step farther away than his arms can reach, and his shoulders pinch perceptibly towards his ears.

There's relief in that sigh, but not enough. Not nearly enough.

 

.

 

They wait.

Morning breaks, and Monday crawls along without fanfare—another unplanned day off work; the explanation sent to the Yard elicits a series of incredulous texts from Sally, most of which Greg manages to read as genuinely concerned.

Films often portray long hospital waits as opportunities to bond: heartfelt conversations to the tender strains of symphonic soundtracks. In reality, Greg spends most of his time with John in silence. The friendship they share has never really made it off the launchpad, never become _truly_ close even though their common experience is extensive. Obstacles have cropped up again and again; Greg's secretive envy, John's defensiveness, the grief they couldn't properly share. And here, with unhappy reality hanging over their heads, light conversation is all but impossible. Perhaps John thinks it odd that Greg seems as wholly committed to sticking around as he himself is, but they don't discuss their respective motivations. After the first eight hours, they don't really discuss much of anything.

They take turns in the room, now and then bringing each other disgusting coffee, or sometimes disgusting builders' tea for variety. Of the two of them, Greg's had the most recent experience with days spent in vigil, and so is already practised at dozing while sitting in the corridor. John, on the other hand, survived both medical school and the army, and thus can practically sleep standing up in short intervals.

John had explained the finer points of the Glasgow coma scale, early in the night, but not much of the information has stuck; _it's not as bad as it could be_ , and that's enough for Greg to know. At this point, there's no way of determining whether Sherlock's prolonged cardiac arrest has led to brain damage; they can't even say for sure yet that he _will_ wake up, though the prognosis is hopeful.

Greg can't stand to consider the possibility of permanent damage. Yes, a comatose Sherlock is still a _living_ Sherlock, and he knows that what he'd begged for in his earlier desperation had been less than precise...but he has to believe in benevolence.

After the day is well underway, Mrs Hudson makes a brief and tearful visit. John accompanies her back to Baker Street, to take a quick shower and get a change of clothing from the things he still has stashed there. When he returns, he's promised to bring along something good from the landlady's kitchen, as their canteen breakfasts were profoundly unsatisfying.

His absence gives Greg a longer turn with Sherlock than he's had all night, along with the privacy of knowing that nobody is waiting outside to come in at any moment. He remembers that coma patients should be spoken to—though it's entirely possible that's another holdover from those sappy films—and now that he can't be overheard, his tongue no longer seems glued to the roof of his mouth.

"So. Sherlock," he begins, wincing at the size of his voice in the windowless little room. "I don't think I've ever seen you this still for more than ten minutes, you know? Wasn't even entirely sure you ever _slept_ , for a few years there. And now it's been, what, almost fourteen hours?" He shifts awkwardly in his seat. He sounds like an idiot, and he wishes the man in the bed would cut him off and tell him so. "Well, fifteen and a half since you were shot. Fourteen, since—since whatever that was. When you didn't die. When you stayed with us. And we're all glad for that, by the way, but you might want to consider waking up, soon. You heard poor Mrs Hudson; she's terribly upset..."

He pauses, trying to gather his thoughts into some sort or order.

"I, uh, I dunno what to say, without you snapping back at me, or calling me ridiculous names." He chuckles sadly. "You know, I really was afraid to tell you my name, when you met me? It seems so silly, now. I actually thought if I spent more than a couple minutes near you, that something awful would happen. That you'd—see through me. Or-or be hurt, somehow. I'd have done _anything_ to stop you being hurt. Then, and now. So, this, here? This is no _good_ , Sherlock."

The foot of the bed has been Greg's only focus for a while now, he suddenly realises; he's staring fixedly at the shape of the unmoving feet beneath the covers. Steeling himself, he shifts his eyes upwards to study the limp and sweaty curls, the faintly creased brow. Below the ridge of his pale cheekbones, most of Sherlock's face is obscured by the bulky, fogged plastic of the oxygen mask.

_"If they'd let me take the oxygen with me, I'd go."_

The memory strikes him hard: a different hospital room, years past, and a Sherlock who was young and graceless. What he wouldn't give, now, to hear that voice again, smoke-rough and petulant, baiting him with haughty words, threatening to pull out his IV and leave...

"Am I gonna have to sit here, and make sure you stay?" Greg asks the unconscious man quietly, his eyes prickling.

The leading silence between each soft beep of the monitors feels like a question; he swallows roughly and keeps talking. "I will, you know. If that's what it takes. It's why I haven't left; I think I had to be close, before. God, Sherlock, you've no idea how I—you've never known how important you are, to me—"

 _Tell him,_ Baba murmurs, in his memories.

_No, I can't. Not like this!_

"I've failed you," Greg says, a cracked whisper. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock."

 

.

 

Late that night, Greg returns from the canteen, loaded down with more awful tea to wash down the last of Mrs Hudson's biscuits, and finds John standing in the doorway of the private room while one of the night nurses works inside. He's practically vibrating with the news.

"He woke up!"

"Thank God, really?"

"Just for a few seconds. Barely opened his eyes, mumbled 'Mary' and he was out again. But he woke _up_ , Greg. He's out of the woods!"

As if his strings have been cut, Greg sags in relief, almost spilling the contents of both steaming cups; John rescues them from him, his expression sharpening into concern. "You should really go home and rest, Greg; you look like you need it as much as Sherlock does!"

"But..."

"He's sleeping, now, really sleeping; it's good for him. I can stay with him alone, tonight, and anyway, Mary will be here in the morning. I know you were saying you'd taken too much time off work."

"That's true," Greg sighs. "I hate to leave you in the lurch, but I really should be getting back. You'll keep me updated, though? So I can come in and see him, when he's up and really talking again?"

"It'll be a few days, I think," John warns him. "He may get a few minutes awake, here and there, but I wouldn't count on him making any sort of sense right away." He looks troubled, despite the good news; Greg knows there's still plenty to worry about.

"He'll be okay," he says, in the most reassuring voice he can muster, as much for himself as for John.

And he repeats it to himself a thousand times, over the next six days' distracted work. Every time he studies his rapidly fading bruise in the mirror, every time a text message comes in to update him on new improvements and baby steps towards recovery, he chants it silently: _he'll be okay._

 

.

 

On Sunday morning, Greg gets word that Sherlock's been moved up to a more open room, in the less intensive ward. He can't get away from the Yard until that evening, though—he really has let his personal time get out of hand; thankfully, Mycroft's special list still allows him and John to go up after visiting hours are over.

He's expecting some cranky insults, some evasive excuses, and maybe a wrong name that will make him smile despite his performance of annoyance. He's expecting a heartening twenty minutes' visit, and a short video he can take home and tuck away in his private files.

He's most definitely _not_ expecting an empty bed, and an open window.

They've got a game plan organised within minutes; John calls to recruit Mary for the search, while Greg storms the hospital security office and then requests a meeting with Mycroft. Hours later, the pair of them reconvene after searching their respective areas of the city; Greg gets out of a cab at Baker Street just as John approaches on foot from the opposite direction.

John holds the entry door open for him, and they compare notes as they plod slowly up the stairs. Judging by the pace he's set, John is just as exhausted as Greg is, at this point, if not more.

"Just came from Camden Lock; I searched Parliament Hill and Hampstead Cemetery while I was up that way, too," Greg reports. "Got nothing for my troubles but a nearly twisted ankle. Any luck on your end?"

"Nothing at Dagmar Court, the British Library, or Barts. Molly actually told me he's used her _bedroom_ as a hideout before—can you _imagine_? That arsehole—but she swore up and down that he isn't there tonight. Mary says he's not at Kew Gardens, either; she was going to try making contact with that crazy fan club of his, next."

The thought of Sherlock holed up in Molly's bedroom brings Greg to a disbelieving pause; he shakes it off, grimacing. "Well, clearly there's _something_ we've missed. Maybe I should call Mycroft again."

"It's getting late." John pushes off the banister and continues his weary climb. "You've already checked in with Mycroft once, do you really think he'd expect you to get in touch again if you haven't got news? Surely he's left his office by now; he might not even answer. I mean, even the Government sleeps, sometimes," he reasons, a yawn catching him by surprise on the last word.

"Don't worry," Greg mutters, remembering the long hallway between the two boys' bedrooms so long ago, "Mycroft's always been a light sleeper..."

John stumbles on the top step and glances over his shoulder with wide eyes, and only then does Greg realise what's slipped out of his mouth.

And _oh, my,_ John's clearly taking that tidbit of information _entirely_ the wrong way.

"Not—no, I don't mean—Christ, John, that's not what you think!"

" _Sure_ , Greg," John replies, altogether too sincerely.

Mrs Hudson is in the kitchen, busily wiping down an already spotless worktop with a cotton tea towel. As they come in behind her she folds it and hurriedly sets it aside; the flat as a whole is cleaner than Greg's ever seen it.

"Oh! Tell me you boys have found him? I've been ever so worried..."

Greg shakes his head in the negative, but John is still looking at him with a speculative gleam in his eyes. "You _did_ tell me you didn't have a girlfriend," he says under his breath.

"None of that," Greg huffs. "We've got more important things to worry about!"

"Right..." Chastened, John scratches unhappily at the back of his neck as he turns to pace into the sitting room. "So where have we got left to check?"

"Look, we can search London 'til we're blue in the face, but it's not going to get us anywhere if we can't figure out why he ran off," declares Greg.

Mrs Hudson hums anxiously and crosses her arms. "Well...he does _hate_ the hospital food, I know that much. But he could have just _asked_ me, I'd gladly have smuggled something in my handbag for him!"

John exchanges a quizzical glance with Greg over his shoulder. "He knew who shot him," he muses after a pause, gesturing at the space below his ribs as he turns to face the kitchen again. "The bullet wound was here, so he was facing whoever it was."

"So why not tell us?" The obvious answer occurs to Greg almost immediately, and he answers his own question. "Because, he's tracking them down _himself_."

"Or protecting them," suggests John.

"Protecting the shooter? Why?"

"Well, protecting _someone_ , then. But why would he care? He's Sherlock," he complains, dropping tiredly into the red armchair. "Who would he bother protecting?"

Even though Greg's just suggested that further aimless searching is pointless, he finds himself unwilling to stay and spin his wheels here any longer. He hasn't been home since early this morning—and _there's_ a thought he hadn't considered: surely Sherlock knows the address of his flat?

What if, all this time, Sherlock has been hiding in the one place he doesn't expect Greg or anyone else to go before the search is abandoned?

"Call me if you hear anything," he says, moving for the door. "Don't hold out on me, John. _Call_ me, okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, right," John agrees with a fleeting look in his direction, but it's clear his mind is already far away, deep in the puzzle.

 

.

 

Greg tries hard not to get his hopes up. Honestly, he does try. But when he unlocks the door and steps into his dark, quiet flat, he can't help but imagine Sherlock hidden in the shadows of his sitting room, poised in silent thought on the comfortably battered armchair there, awaiting his eventual return.

Or around the corner, in the kitchen, quietly helping himself to the contents of the fridge.

Or resting on Greg's bed—he's recovering from surgery, after all; escaping the hospital had to have required considerable effort.

Or...in the loo?

The flat is empty, of course. And it feels emptier still, once Greg has turned on all the lights and checked every room.

 _He really is out there, going after the shooter on his own,_ he thinks, dejected.

The very idea of it makes him uneasy. He's gone over his own disjointed memory of the incident dozens of times, and all he can come up with is the image of Sherlock's face, shocked and wary, and then the awful sound of the shot itself.

_Who could it have been? How did I miss getting a look at their face?_

He's steps away from the comfort of his bed, but knowing that Sherlock is still out there is too much to take. Flicking off the lights, he turns around and walks out.

 

.

 

Molly looks up from her paperwork in surprise when he knocks and opens the door to her office. "Greg, hello! Are you—um, John already asked me about where Sherlock might be; I really, truly haven't heard from him..."

"Yeah, I know, John told me. Sorry," he says, coming over to sit by her desk. "I knew you'd still be here, if you were in when he came through. I hope you don't mind me just—hanging about, a while?"

"No luck, then?" She tuts her sympathy, reaching up to pull off the safety goggles she's absentmindedly left atop her head, and a long tendril of hair escapes her ponytail.

"No. Nothing. I'm really worried, Molls."

"Surely he had a good reason, to run out?"

Greg sighs. "That's what we've been trying to figure out. We thought he might be tracking down the person who shot him. It had to be something important like that, right? He knows he shouldn't be up and about, not so soon!"

She purses her lips and shakes her head. "No, he really shouldn't. I stopped by to see him this morning, and he still needed help from his nurse to use the loo. I can't imagine he'd have an easy time getting himself around, tonight. But...if he really needs to be out doing—whatever it is—he'll be scientific about it, I'm sure!" Reaching a hand across the desk to cover his, she adds, "He'll know his limits, and take them into account; he's incredibly smart, Greg."

"Yeah, but that wasn't enough to stop him shooting up, a week ago, _was_ it? You and I both know his genius has no bearing on his common sense!" His memory throws up an image of the crack house, making his teeth grind together. "I just can't understand it. He'd been clean for over _nine years_ , if he was having trouble he could have said something to me..."

Molly is quiet a moment; her eyes drop. "Sherlock is lucky to have you on his side, Greg. You care so deeply, about him—about everyone," she tells him softly. "You're the most caring person I've ever known."

He follows her gaze, belatedly realising that he's moved in his upset; their hands are clasped together, now, palm to palm, his fingers curled up to graze her delicate wrist.

His heart accelerates through a double handful of beats before he can find any part of his voice. "Molly," he rasps. "I..."

_I wish I'd asked you to dance at the wedding. I think I've been in love with you for a long time._

_I'm a liar, and a coward, and I don't deserve you._

"...I, I think we just have to wait and see," he says, slipping his hand gently from hers and reluctantly breaking the spell. "He's bound to turn up, right? I should just...get my mind off it for a bit. Let's pretend like I came by to have a normal chat, huh?"

"Mm, too bad our coffeehouse isn't open overnight," Molly says, standing with a shaky smile. "Can I offer you a cup from the staff room?"

"My standards for coffee have been significantly lowered, this past week. Lead on."

At this time of night, the small staff room serving the mortuary and its associated labs is empty. Molly clatters around in the disorganised cabinets with familiar ease, filling a battered electric kettle while Greg looks on and kicks himself over the lost opportunity.

"So," she says, her back to him as she readies two cups, "you were just away visiting your mum, last week, weren't you? How's she doing?"

"She's well," Greg replies, gratefully accepting her change of subject.

He goes on to recount an amusing bit of his visit, and then she makes him laugh with a story about her father's recent battles with garden pests; for a few minutes, as they sit and talk, everything really is okay. Outside this room, the world may be upside-down...but with Molly, he can't help but feel better.

They move on to chatting about little work-related dramas, the minutiae of their daily lives that are usually overshadowed by the issues they've chosen to temporarily ignore. Greg's glad he made the impulsive decision to come here; after the roller coaster of the last few weeks, it's a huge relief to joke around, and grin, and share easy laughter—

But then the air is suddenly sucked away from him, and his chuckle becomes a panicked choke. There's nowhere to go, no way to escape. The nearly empty paper cup drops from his hand; he lurches out of his seat, away from Molly's startled exclamation, and plants a hand on the nearest wall to steady himself.

The sitting room of 221B fills his view, its details sharper and more surreal in the dark-edged shimmer of the ripple than they'd been before his eyes an hour earlier. John and Sherlock are seated in their usual places, both looking quite unhappy, and Mary sits stiffly on a dining chair placed between them.

"You didn't find me for another five minutes," Sherlock is telling John. "Left to you, I would have died."

 _What? No, that isn't right,_ Greg thinks, buzzing around the edge of the room. _I was there—and how would you know, anyway? I watched you fall unconscious!_

"The average arrival time for a London ambulance is...eight minutes," continues Sherlock, amid the noise of men pounding up the stairs—two paramedics burst in, carrying their equipment bags.

"Did somebody call an ambulance?"

John's obviously confused, and Greg feels much the same. _If they're here already, what am I meant to do?_

"Did you bring any morphine? I asked on the phone," says Sherlock.

"We were told there was a shooting," the man in front answers him, while Greg follows his instinct and slips his awareness into the one lagging behind.

"There was, last week...but I believe I'm bleeding internally, and my pulse is very erratic..."

The second paramedic is distracted, his mind a slow, jumbled fog. He feels tired, and angry; has he failed to rest before his shift? Has he just broken up with a lover, or fought with a friend? Greg has no way of knowing, but he's determined to get the man on track, regardless.

Sherlock pushes himself up to stand; he warns them, "You may need to restart my heart on the way," and falters with a pained gasp as his knees give out.

 _Don't you dare fuck this up,_ Greg tells the man, spurring him forwards with a firm _push_ of attention and motivation; as soon as he feels the command take effect, he shoots across to the first paramedic, to quickly clear away the confusion he'd heard in his words. While he makes the second _push_ he can hear John chanting in the background, "Come on, Sherlock. Come on, Sherlock," and again, Greg echoes his sentiment exactly.

"...John?" Sherlock's voice is a wavering groan as both paramedics reach his side and take his weight. "John—"

That's as much as Greg hears before the vision of Baker Street pulls away from him; the return of oxygen feels like falling, caught in a dizzying wave of despair. _This is too much,_ he wails silently, _you're killing yourself, what are you thinking?_

"Sherlock," he gasps on his first breath. " _Damn_ you—"

"Greg, lean on me, okay? Try and take a few deep breaths, for me." Molly speaks close to his ear, her words clipped and intent; her arm is slung beneath his shoulders, guiding him away from the wall. "I'm taking you upstairs. If you don't think you can walk I can call for a gurney."

He reaches out in blind panic, clutching at a fistful of fluffy pink jumper near her waist. "No—no, please _no_ , Molly, don't! Don't. I'm fine!"

"You most certainly are not!" Her eyes are wide and frightened, her face near enough to fill his view. "I may spend all my time with post-mortems, but I know what I just saw!"

"Please! Please. Just—lemme sit down, okay? I just—need a minute. I just need—fuck, _Sherlock_ , how _could_ you—" He releases his hold on her clothing and jams the back of one hand against his open mouth, fighting the tears that have sprung to his eyes.

_I can't do this, I can't lose you. I can't stand to feel you dying, not again!_

Molly keeps one hand clamped around Greg's upper arm as he takes a shaky seat; she moves the other to his wrist, feeling for his pulse. He focuses on the sensation of her fingers on his skin, and tries to get his heaving breaths back under control. When at last he looks up again, her eyes are on his, confused.

"Greg...what was that, about Sherlock?"

 

\-----

 


	21. Breakthrough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With that, she pivots smartly on her heel and walks away, leaving him stunned.

  
**21\. Breakthrough**  


.

 

Greg's mouth goes instantly dry at the question, but he's still tearing up.

"I...I don't know what you're talking about," he stammers, shifting his eyes away.

"Greg, come on. Look at me," Molly says, with a backbone of steel in her voice that he can't ignore. "You just stopped breathing for forty-nine seconds. You were completely unresponsive to physical, visual, and auditory stimuli. And then, you started babbling about Sherlock; we haven't even mentioned him for over fifteen minutes. Do you _remember_ the last fifteen minutes?"

"Yeah," he says immediately, "yeah, Molly, 'course I do. You were just telling me about how Dr Ingalls mucked up your filing system."

She twitches her mouth in a tiny smile that drops away almost at once. "You need to let me take you upstairs. You've just had some kind of seizure..."

"I haven't. Molly, please! I can't go to A&E. I know it looked bad, and I'm sorry I frightened you, but I promise you I'm okay. Trust me, I'll be no worse for wear."

Her hand tightens on his wrist. "This has happened before, then," she says. "How often?"

"Molly, I can't—"

"How. _Often_?"

"It-it depends. Please, can we not do this? I'm begging you, Molly!"

"Tell me," she demands. "I'm not letting you out of my sight until you do!"

"You wouldn't believe me, if I did," he chokes out, and to his utter mortification, a tear spills over and slips down his cheek. "You'd think I was crazy, and I'm _not_. Molly. I can't—I can't lose you, too!"

The grip on his wrist is released, and for a second Greg thinks she'll let him go; he shifts his weight in the chair to get up, but she shocks him by stepping in between his knees, gently bracketing his face in her hands and leaning close.

"Greg, listen to me," she says, tenderly wiping his cheek with one thumb. "Calm down. You and I are friends, aren't we?"

"Y-yes."

"You can trust me. I promise, Greg." Her eyes on his are so earnest, so _accepting_ , that he wells up with fresh tears to blink back. He lifts his hands to grasp her upper arms, unable to turn away from her gaze; undeterred, she strokes both her thumbs over his cheekbones again, and says, "Whatever just happened to you—it really happened. I saw it happen. I just want to understand, okay? I need to know that you're all right."

He draws in a great, shuddering breath and lets it out slow. There's nothing for it. _The only way out is through, God help me._ "Sherlock has just left 221B, in an ambulance," he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut. "John and Mary were with him in the sitting room, and there were two paramedics. Internal bleeding."

Molly stiffens immediately, but she doesn't flinch away at his unexpected statement. Her hands drop to rest on his collarbones and squeeze there, just enough to be a reassuring presence. "But you said he hadn't turned up, before. You...you were seeing all that? Just now?"

He nods, a jerky motion, still not looking up at her. "Don't call John, he won't answer, he's probably riding along. Call—" _Mary,_ he almost says, but something stops him—a memory of the way she'd held herself, and how John had been looking anywhere but at his wife in the brief time Greg had hovered above. "Call Mrs Hudson. She should know. Say—you're curious how our search is going."

"You're sure you want me to do that?" asks Molly, sounding doubtful.

"This is the only proof I can offer you," he says, brokenly, torn between the overwhelming need to shrink away in self-defence and the desire to pull her closer, to bury his head at her shoulder and _sob_ outright. "Please. Call her, and see..."

There's a pause, three seconds that feel like an endless judgment—and then she shifts, dislodging his arms to get out the phone in the pocket of her lab coat.

She doesn't step back as she dials, not even when he reaches out sightlessly and places his hands on her hips; he knows it's an imposition, but the close contact is all that stands between him and full-blown panic as he listens to her side of the conversation.

"Sorry, Mrs Hudson? Hello, this is Molly Hooper. I know it's late—yes, hello! Um—I was just calling, well, I know that everyone was out searching for Sherlock, tonight? And I was wondering if—did they? _Has_ he? Oh, my. Oh. How long ago? Well—no, that's all right, I'll check with the hospital, in the morning. Did they say—mm-hm. Oh, goodness. No, I'm sure he'll be okay, Mrs Hudson. They'll take good care of him—yes. Yes, I will. Of course. Thank you, yes. ...Good-night."

After ringing off, she goes silent; the mobile clatters onto the table beside them. Her hands drop to cover his after a moment, and he tucks his grimacing face further towards his shoulder, expecting her to brush off his grasp. Instead she says very softly, "Greg? Open your eyes, please?"

Slowly, he forces himself to obey, blinking wet eyes fearfully up at her expression of— _awe?_

"This has happened to you before," she says again, and this time her tone is something akin to wonder. "You can...see things, happening to people?"

"Just Sherlock," he answers, somewhat reluctantly. "I don't just see it. I _save_ him."

"You save him?"

"I—it's hard to explain. But if something is about to happen..." Confessing to mind control seems one step too far. He slides his gaze away, shrugging uncomfortably, but she slips the fingers of one hand into his hair above his ear and gently turns his attention back to her.

"How long?" she asks, searching his eyes intently.

"I was thirteen. He was three months old."

"Oh, my God." Her hand half-clenches in his hair, and he's not even sure she realises she's doing it.

He offers her a wobbly, tentative smile. "And that was when I started going grey, incidentally," he tells her, rolling his eyes wryly towards his hairline. _In for a penny, in for a pound._ "Look, I know I sound a total nutter."

"I may not be sure how this can be scientifically possible," she retorts, blinking rapidly and flushing a little, "but I'm not closed-minded enough to believe there's nothing science doesn't know! It's just...a lot to take _in_ , Greg. You've been...all the time I've known you, hiding this...?"

She doesn't miss the guilty wince in his slow nod.

"Please, Greg. Don't be afraid? I'll never tell anyone. Your secret is safe, with me."

Overwhelmed, he manages to whisper, " _Thank_ you, Molly," before slipping his arms around her slim waist and pulling her into a hug.

 

.

 

The intensity of his emotional state is such that Greg almost expects time to have stopped completely, but of course the moment quickly passes. They break their embrace clumsily, and Molly steps away at last, allowing him to stand on shaky legs; she moves to the worktop to begin fixing more coffee, unprompted.

As she works, Greg fidgets on his feet at the opposite end of the small room, pretending to be engrossed in an emergency procedures memo tacked on the noticeboard. The inside of his head is stuck in a stutter-stop loop, alternately churning from disbelief to gratitude and fizzing out into baffled static.

_What happens, now?_

"Here," Molly's voice jolts him from his fugue, and he jumps, spinning to find her close behind him. "Let's go back to my office," she says.

He nods and follows her, marvelling at her apparent ability to take his confession in stride. It isn't until they reach her private territory, and she locks the door behind them, that she shows any sign of what's just happened: she sinks into her desk chair as if a great weight sits upon her shoulders.

 _I know the feeling,_ he thinks, sipping slowly at coffee he doesn't need and waiting for her to speak.

"I'm not the first person you've told, am I?" she asks at last.

"Yes, and no," he admits, staring down into the cup between his palms. "I told my grandmother, on her deathbed. Safe enough. And before that, I tried to tell Nadia. Right before Christmas, four years ago."

"Tried— _oh_. She filed for the divorce..."

"Right after. Yup. It was all I could do to convince her not to have me committed."

"I don't think you're mad, Greg," she tells him, solemnly. "And I understand that it must be uncomfortable to talk about. If you don't want me to ask questions, I won't..."

"But you're curious." He glances up, the beginnings of a grin pulling at his lips.

"Bloody _right_ , I'm curious!"

The grin graduates to a full-fledged laugh. "Molly _Hooper_! God, I love when you're crude!"

She folds her hands on the desk primly, but her eyes sparkle with mirth as she retorts, "I don't know _what_ you're talking about; I'm a very nice girl!"

"...Right," he says eventually, feeling lightheaded and punchy by the time their mutual giggle dies off. "Ask, ask. I've already jumped off a damn cliff, Molly, you may as well make it interesting on the way down!"

Perhaps she'd needed the release of tension as much as he had, but the way she's pressing her lips together in that assessing half-smile is long familiar. It's far from the first time she's manipulated him into a brighter mood through humour. He expects her next question to be something technical, but she surprises him: "You'll want to be going soon, won't you?"

"Sorry?"

"For Sherlock. To be at his hospital—or, no, no. You have to wait, don't you, until someone calls you? Otherwise it looks like you know what happened too soon..." 

_She understands, just that fast. Oh my God, I love this woman._

"Well, you know now," he points out, "from Mrs Hudson. So I need to pretend I haven't seen you tonight. With me here, you had no reason to call her and ask what you did, since I should've been getting updates from John. And he _didn't_ call me when he found Sherlock, obviously, so I'd have assumed no news, and told you so. Beyond that, is it likely you'd ring me at this time of night to tell me, when you'd presume John would let me know?" Scratching his head, he concludes, "You're right. Looks like I'm stuck 'til John actually calls."

She boggles at him over the edge of her cup. "Is it like this for you _all_ the time?"

"Pretty much. Lucky for me, I'm a fucking fantastic liar." He doesn't even try to hide his shame at that statement; Molly, alone, is owed over thirteen years' worth of apologies. However, she doesn't seem terribly concerned about getting any of them tonight, nor does she give him the opportunity to dwell.

"How close do you need to be?"

"I don't." The single exception, that strange draining hour during Sherlock's surgery, can go unmentioned for now. "It doesn't seem to matter where he is in the world; I think the farthest I've seen him was in Australia—what's wrong? You're doing that face..."

"I could have told you! You knew all along he wasn't dead—"

"Not _all_ along," he puts in; it doesn't slow her down.

"—and all that time, I barely even let myself talk to you—I felt honestly _awful_ about it, I was so worried I'd say the wrong thing—but I could have just _told_ you!"

He can't deny it—the thought that he might have had the support of her friendship, during those bleak years Sherlock was gone, elicits a sharp stab of regret. But he's long since made peace with her reason for being distant. "It's okay, Molly, really. You were keeping an important secret for Sherlock's sake. You did what you had to do. Trust me, I can relate," he assures her. "I'm only sorry to have to ask you to keep another one for him."

She stares at him for a moment, her expression unreadable. "I don't mind. And it's not for him."

A fresh swell of emotion tightens his throat. "Thank you, again," he says, gruffly.

Their strange discussion goes on for about five more minutes before Greg's phone rings. Once he's officially privy to the bad news, it's time to leave.

He stands; Molly does, too, reaching the door first and unlocking it for him. They pause in the doorway and face each other, suddenly awkward: as if she hadn't just been caressing his face and stroking his hair, as if he hadn't clasped the curve of her hips between his palms like a lifeline. If he closes his eyes, he knows he'll still be able to feel the shape of them—so he very carefully refrains from closing his eyes, until after he's said goodbye and stepped out.

He just hopes his adoration hasn't been too obvious, tonight. Now is _not_ a good time to add another variable into such a delicate equation.

 

.

 

Sherlock's second surgery goes much more smoothly than his first, at least from Greg's perspective. He hurries to join John in the waiting room, waiting in apprehension for the struggling sensation of a life in the balance, but it never comes. Neither does John speak to him, beyond a brusque and maddeningly vague non-explanation when Greg asks what happened. The theory that Sherlock had gone rogue to find his shooter seems to have been mistaken; judging by the little he can get out of John, and what he'd seen during the ripple, Greg thinks Sherlock must have been after something else entirely. Whatever it was, John's clearly upset on a very personal level, and unwilling to share. It gives Greg the freedom to mull over his own new developments, so he can't really complain.

This time, there's no post-surgical coma; Sherlock awakes from anaesthesia both fully coherent and fully intractable. He seems to find it mildly amusing that Mycroft's arranged for a windowless, single-entry room directly beside the nurses' station.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" asks Greg, taking his own turn after John has stormed out with a face like thunder. "You know there's a _reason_ you're meant to be on bed rest after major surgery!"

Sherlock gazes up at him, impassive. "Try finding something I haven't already heard from John to bang on about, Lestrade. You're putting me to sleep faster than the morphine."

Greg drags a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Who was it?"

"Excuse me?"

"We thought you'd run out of hospital to find the shooter. But now it looks more like you were just—bored, or maybe just trying to ruin John's marriage, I dunno, not like I'm bloody asking—but who _was_ it?"

"That's not important."

"Bloody— _not important_ , my arse! You were _shot_ , Sherlock. You flatlined, _multiple_ times, and you were in a fucking coma for twenty-eight hours, and now you're telling me you'd rather just forgive and forget? Just tell me who I can go after for this!"

" _Drop_ it, Lestrade," says Sherlock, his quiet words dripping with ice. "Trust me when I tell you, you want _no part_ of this."

Confounded, Greg stares into the man's unflinching eyes, sure there's a message there he's not receiving. "...You're telling me," he ventures at last, "that Mycroft is handling it?"

"Believe what you like," Sherlock says, with a slow, heavy blink. "Just let it _go_. Yes?"

"All right, fine. Under protest," Greg warns him. "And if you endanger your own health one more time during your recovery, just _once_ , you're never getting a case from me again, I swear to God."

 

.

 

Three full weeks pass before Sherlock is cleared to leave the hospital; Greg makes frequent visits in that time, stopping by on the way home from work at least every other day. It gives Sherlock the opportunity to amuse himself with deductions about Greg's caseload based on his appearance, as well as with an impressively crafted variety of new insults, none of which Greg minds very much. As far as he can tell, John spends time with Sherlock at least twice daily. Greg wonders about this—the early days were one thing, but the Watson home is really not conveniently located for such dedicated attendance. It isn't until the day of Sherlock's release that the situation becomes clear.

Sherlock ascends the stairs first, moving slowly but with relieved excitement visible in the lines of his posture. John follows close behind, a duffel of Sherlock's belongings slung across his back, his demeanor the same strange, contradictory blend of barely-repressed anger and solicitous care that has been his hallmark for the past weeks. Greg brings up the rear, lugging a heavy bag full of all the books that had migrated to the hospital room; upon entering 221B, it's immediately apparent to him that something is different. Sherlock hasn't been here in a month, and Greg remembers the nervous cleaning spree Mrs Hudson had undertaken, but subtle signs of life nag at the edges of his perception: ten or a hundred tiny markers that add up to an occupant, rather than a visitor.

"Wait—John? You've been staying here?"

"You didn't tell him," John says to Sherlock, turning from his industrious pillow fluffing with a raised brow. "I'm honestly surprised."

"It was hardly relevant to him," Sherlock replies dismissively. "And although it's true that he wasn't observant enough to ask, I saw no need to mention his failing."

"Aw, you really _do_ care," mutters Greg, dropping the bag in the corner between the bookcase and window.

Finished with the sofa preparation, John makes a curt gesture at Sherlock, then looks to Greg. "It's just while he's recuperating," he explains. "He obviously needs someone around. It was easier, this way. Mary and I agreed."

Greg nods peaceably, and makes no comment on the man's brittle, almost vicious tone; he does direct an inquiring look at Sherlock, however, once John moves on into the kitchen.

_Everything all right here?_

_It's fine,_ Sherlock assures him with an expressive dip of his head, as he settles himself carefully across the sofa. _Nothing to worry about._

Stepping close, Greg reaches behind Sherlock's shoulder blade to tug one of the pillows upwards, allowing the man to situate himself better. His back to the kitchen, he murmurs near Sherlock's ear: "If you need me to do anything, sit him down for a talk or whatever, you just let me know, yeah?"

"Your concern is touching, as always, Garrett," Sherlock says in a low rumble, "and entirely unnecessary in this case."

"Sure, okay. Just keep me in mind." With a faint smile, Greg chucks him gently on the shoulder and goes.

 

.

 

Ten long workdays later, Sally's drawling, amused voice carries through the open doorway of Greg's office. "Long time no see, Doctor! Still no Tall, Dark and Damaged, tonight?"

The response isn't audible, but Greg sighs and closes out of the email he's writing. By the time his visitor appears, he's laced his hands together expectantly on the desk. "Evening, John. What can I do for you?"

"Sherlock said you've got something to send with me."

"No, I told him I _didn't_ ," Greg says. "Pretty sure I made that abundantly clear, in my last text. I'd hope he doesn't think I've got reason to be lying?"

"Uh, no? But he said I should come and see you; I thought—" John's silent replay of the conversation in question draws an expression of resigned annoyance over his features. It sits too comfortably, there, in grooves worn deep by bitterness and resentment; every time Greg has seen him, in the past month, he's looked more and more haggard under the weight of this visible anger.

"I was about to go get a bite for dinner," Greg offers diplomatically, shuffling his desk into quick order. "You're welcome to join me."

John's shoulders slump a little as he realises he's been manipulated into this very outcome. "Apparently _that's_ exactly why I'm here."

They fall into a stoic silence, making their way together to a comfortably rustic establishment Greg likes to frequent on cold evenings. It isn't until they've both been served with steaming bowls of sage-scented chicken stew, with cold pints at their elbows and a generous platter of warm, crusty sourdough between them, that they move beyond the most basic of small talk.

"Everything all right, then?" asks John, almost grudgingly, as he tucks into his meal.

Greg lifts an eyebrow. "Me? I'm fine," he says. "What?"

"No, I don't know...relationship troubles? Bumps in the road?" John makes a baffling series of gestures, drawing little circles in the air with a hunk of bread. "Not that I'm looking for details, my God, no! Honestly, the _less_ I know about your arrangement, the better."

"John, what in the _world_ are you on about?"

"I understand why Sherlock sent me over," he continues to babble, sounding a bit anxious; "it's about the last thing he'd ever want to acknowledge out loud, but I know he is _concerned_ for his brother. And he has a lot of respect for you, whatever he says."

"Really, uh, I think you've got the wrong idea about me, John—"

"Look, I'm only asking because Sherlock apparently thinks we need to talk."

"Yeah," Greg says, with an incredulous bark of laughter. "About _you_!"

John stops short, a bite of stew poised halfway to his mouth. "What about me?" he asks, instantly defensive.

"Ever since Sherlock went back to hospital, it's like you've been ready to throw punches at anyone who looks at you funny! Don't give me that face, John; I'm not an idiot, whatever Sherlock says. He knows I've been worried."

"It's nothing for you to worry about," John protests.

"Why, just because I don't live on Baker Street? Because I only care about Sherlock for his help with my _cases_? Come on! After all this time, you must know better—if it affects him, it's worth my attention!"

John hangs his head, guiltily paddling his spoon about in his half-emptied bowl, and Greg sighs.

"What's going _on_ with you, John? Is it Mary?"

"She's fine!"

"See, there; you don't have to snap my head off like that," Greg points out, frowning. "Whatever's happened between you and her, it's affecting everything around you. And that includes _Sherlock_. I offered to have a talk with you, when we brought him home from hospital—he told me he'd be fine. Told me not to worry about your attitude. But then he sent you to see me after all, tonight, so my guess? You've been taking it out on him, all this time, and he hasn't got a clue how to tell you it's hurting him!"

"Now, that's not really fair," mutters John, glowering at the table. "He's no model patient!"

"He's trying to recuperate in a hostile environment, in the company of someone who clearly doesn't want to be there!" _Someone he's loved and lost, no less,_ Greg can't add aloud. _It must be so hard for him..._ "I don't blame him a bit for being difficult!"

At the word _hostile_ John's head snaps up, eyes wide and dismayed. "It's not—I don't—" He breaks off, clearly struggling with something; after a few taut seconds, he expels a gusting breath and says, clipped and wooden, "We haven't been speaking. Mary and me. There was...she, she did something. And I can't...I don't have much longer to stay at Baker Street."

Greg nods, relieved to get even this small morsel of explanation from the maddeningly reticent man; perhaps pressing John's buttons in regards to Sherlock wasn't the most caring route to choose, but it's had the desired effect. "It's been almost five weeks, since the surgery, and he's coming along well. When he was worse off, you had a good excuse to stay away," he extrapolates. "The closer he gets to full recovery, the more you realise you'll have to decide what to do?"

"That's about right. It's—not Sherlock's fault." It sounds like John is still trying to convince himself.

"Well, I'm honestly sorry to hear it, for what it's worth. It's rough, losing trust in a spouse," he says, with the weight of experience behind his words. "But, John, whether or not you can make a choice yet, you can't keep letting it just eat you up like this; it can't be good for you—"

"It's worse than that," John rasps over Greg's fumbling attempt at advice. "She's _pregnant_."

Nadia's too-brief pregnancy remains a raw, wounded place in Greg's memories; it's possible he's reading more into the bald statement than is really there. But to Greg's eyes, John is wrestling with a deep, guilty conflict, utterly unable to reconcile his mixed feelings about what should be a blessing.

It's a surprisingly unhappy thing to find that the two of them have in common.

 

.

 

"Carter, I need you to take these logbooks up to Human Resources for me, if you have a moment?"

Dr Amil responds immediately, turning to speak over his shoulder as he holds a form out for Greg's signature. "Of course, Dr Hooper, right on that. Afternoon, Inspector." He takes the clipboard back, tucks it under his arm with a pleasant nod, and walks out, accepting the stack of paperwork from Molly as he passes her.

Greg has what he needs, too, but he hardly takes a step towards the door before Molly steps in front of it.

"You've been avoiding me." Her accusation is softened by a smile.

"Only a _little_ ," he admits, sheepish. They've worked together a few times in these five weeks since his unplanned confession, but she's right: he hasn't really allowed much opportunity for one-on-one time. "Sorry, I just wasn't sure whether I should, you know. Give you some space."

"That's kind of you, Greg, but I'd rather have seen you. I was worried about you."

"Oh. Sorry, Molly." She continues to look up at him expectantly, and he has to will his attention away from her eyes before he can find something else to say. "I'm fine. Just, working. The usual, really."

"Has Sherlock been safe?" she asks, laying a light hand on Greg's forearm.

He can't help but flinch, just slightly, with a reflexive glance at the door. "He's fine, I haven't—Molly, uh..."

"No, sorry! My fault," she interrupts him, wincing. "I promised myself I wouldn't ask you, I don't know why I said anything, you just looked worried—"

"It's all right. You can ask! It just doesn't feel very _private_ , here." They're alone in the lab, yes, but it's wide open; anyone could walk in on them, standing here close enough to nearly brush their knees together as they speak in hushed tones. He doesn't make a move to step back, though, as he continues. "Look—I don't mean to put you off. Really, I don't. But if you hadn't caught me out like you did, I probably never would've had the guts to tell you, so I just...I dunno how to _handle_ this. I mean, no offence, but what _are_ we, now?"

"I'd like it," she says tentatively, "if we could find a way to be a team."

He blinks down at her, struck speechless at her choice of words. "... _Molly_."

"So, let's have dinner, and talk it over. Somewhere private and safe, where you can relax; my place, tomorrow night?"

He must be dreaming this. "Are you...asking me on a _date_?"

Molly presses her lips together in clear amusement, then quickly lifts herself onto her toes and gives him a delicate peck on the cheek. "Well, _you_ wouldn't have had the guts," she whispers. As she pulls away from him, she returns to her normal volume to say, "I'll text you, later. Good luck with your case."

With that, she pivots smartly on her heel and walks away, leaving him stunned.

 

\-----

 


	22. Distant Hills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All he can do is lie there, shivering and wrecked, until he falls into a fitful sleep.

  
**22\. Distant Hills**  


.

 

Sooner than seems feasible, the blustery autumn is gone, and December marches in. Greg's been busy, these past six weeks, enough so that he was surprised when his weekly memos began to include cheery reminders about upcoming holiday events and exchanges. Here at his favourite coffeehouse, festoons of green and red tinsel dangle from the ceiling. He watches them waving gently overhead in the cold blasts of air that come with each opening of the door, and idly wonders when it stopped being September.

It's not uncommon for him to lose track of time, a bit, when he's buckling down at work. He tends to ignore all but the pertinent dates affecting whatever cases he's pursuing, briefly coming up for air between them to figure out if he's missed bin day again, and whether the leftovers in his fridge are still safe to eat. After all these years, keeping busy is a familiar comfort. It was his coping mechanism of choice during some of his darkest years, allowing him to keep up appearances while he stewed over Sherlock's early drugs habit, and while his marriage disintegrated.

The difference, now, is that he hasn't got terribly much to worry about. That, in itself, is odd enough to be worrisome.

Six weeks ago, Molly had invited him into her flat for the first time. _Date_ they had flippantly called it, and it had begun with all the painfully awkward moments of a fumbling teenaged courtship: shy, stammering compliments, bottomless silences, and nervous tics more befitting a seventeen-year-old boy than a man of fifty-one. Adding to that the necessary discussion of his gift, while sparking a full range of intense emotions, had done little to hasten the romance along.

Still, the problem of what to say to a beautiful woman—sitting on her sofa while her opinionated tabby cat kneads his lap, a glass of red wine in hand—is no real problem at all. And Sherlock has kept his end of the bargain, so far, accepting the tedious routine of his care more meekly than could possibly have been expected. No ripples have taken Greg's breath since the night Sherlock called paramedics to Baker Street. It's given a sense of abstraction to Molly's occasional questions, allowing them to focus on the mechanics of it all without causing needless upset; in fact, things have been so quiet that they've begun to drift away from the topic entirely, remembering the original incident almost like a shared fever dream.

Earlier this week Sherlock had earned a clean bill of health at last; Greg's phone had immediately buzzed with the good news, along with an imperious request that Greg begin calling him out to crime scenes once more. But today, the possibility that Sherlock’s much-anticipated return to normalcy might mean a return to stepping blindly out into traffic and antagonising gang toughs is far from Greg's mind. He's focused on a more personal conundrum, as he sits and sips his coffee.

What to get Molly for Christmas, now that they're...whatever they are?

He'd hardly presume to call her his _girlfriend_ , at this stage; to say they're "taking it slow" is a massive understatement. Honestly, he's still amazed she hasn't tried to refer him to a psychiatrist, or at least been more leery of his professed abilities. (The night he'd had to explain what a _push_ actually entailed had come close, in his opinion. She'd gone very quiet, for the remainder of that meal.)

There aren't any familiar faces working in the shop, today; Greg would have liked to see Cleo, and perhaps press her for some gift-giving advice. He's self-aware enough to know that choosing the sort of gift his ex-wife would have liked is a bad idea, but he has very little experience outside of that comfort zone. Maybe something along the lines of what he'd buy for Corrie—or would that lack romance? It has to be more significant than the casual token gifts they'd always exchanged as friends...but not too expensive or suggestive, as he doesn't want to put pressure on their relationship...

 _I'm not going to figure this out today,_ he realises after a while, standing up to return his emptied mug and leave. It's fine; he has a few weeks left, plenty of time to come back in.

Cleo's reaction to the news about his friend "Hazelnut Latte" should certainly make for a memorable visit, at any rate.

 

.

 

It's not a major case—probably a four at best, according to Sherlock's elusive scale, but nobody on the scene is complaining in the least about the consulting detective's presence. Even Sally is looking forward to a head start on the weekend, and its promised last chance for holiday shopping. At least, that's her excuse for giving Sherlock her willing assistance; Greg suspects she's secretly felt a bit sentimental ever since Sherlock's prolonged hospitalisation. The genial atmosphere in the room can't _all_ be a reflection of his own soppy gratitude, after all.

 _Best tone it down a bit,_ he decides all the same, clamping down on the urge to grin at the sight of Sherlock poised crab-style on knees and gloved fingertips, curls grazing the floor as he tilts his head nearly upside-down to study some invisible detail beneath a table.

Before he's managed to entirely master his expression, John steps around the edge of the room, turning as he comes close to look over his shoulder and follow Greg's gaze with a half-smile.

"I give him another thirty seconds before he needs help getting up," he murmurs, in a tone of gentle exasperation.

"He didn't wince getting down there," Greg points out, "that's not so bad, right?"

"No, you're right. He's stronger every day."

Greg slides a look John's way, wary, but the edge of desperation and anger he would have expected to hear in those words just a month ago is mostly absent. As usual, Greg's minimal involvement means he isn't privy to the details, but it certainly seems as if John has found some outlet for his turmoil. Perhaps he's made a decision about his wife. Perhaps he's finally discussed the problem with Sherlock, and come to some sort of peace on the matter.

And judging by the fond softness in his eyes...maybe they've even talked a bit about their own feelings in regards to each other? _No, that'd be too much to bloody hope for,_ Greg scoffs silently, dismissing the thought.

"So," he says casually, "plans next week?"

"Uh, yes, actually! It sounds mad, but Sherlock's invited me to his parents' for Christmas Day. Apparently his mother's really been pressuring him to go, this year."

"Nearly dying a few times _will_ tend to wind up the relatives," Greg says, with a sage nod. _When they know about it, anyway._

John turns to him expectantly. "And you?"

"Oh, my mum and I are gonna fly out to New York this Sunday, and spend the week with my sister and her family. We don't all get to be together like that every year; it should be a fine time."

"That sounds nice. I had been wondering if Mycroft would be inviting a guest, too," says John.

Greg registers the non sequitur only vaguely, his attention entirely caught by the sight of Sally offering Sherlock a hand up from the floor.

_It really is Christmas, I suppose._

 

.

 

Greg and his mother arrive in Larchmont in time for a late Sunday dinner; three full days remain before the holiday.

In the morning, Pat holds up his hands and begs off at the first suggestion of a shopping outing, and Mum insists she'd rather stay at the house and work on her knitting. But Gaby is insistent on a trip to the mall; Greg goes along with her and Corrie, a dutiful and doting uncle.

He's been visiting his sister in the States for years, and this particular area of New York state has become pleasantly familiar, but he's not sure he'll ever get used to the brash, colourful confrontation that is American holiday marketing. That isn't to say he doesn't like it. Drawn along in the energetic wake of his sister and niece, he can't help grinning at the corny music piped in at each shopfront they pass, and the LED glare of twinkling fairy lights in every possible colour—the charmingly saccharine and the outrageously commercial combining to create an unashamed and brilliant chaos.

By the time they make their way to one of the bustling food courts, Greg is happy to take a short break. He sprawls a little in the sturdy metal chair, using its back to stretch the kinks from his shoulders, then carefully deposits the assortment of shopping bags they've accumulated between his foot and the table leg. The smallest bag is deliberately folded closed; Greg's tucked it into the side of one of the stiff paper sacks, next to the T-shirts Gaby picked out for her best friends. He and Molly have already exchanged early Christmas gifts, of course, and she seems to have been pleased with the buttery cashmere scarf he gave her...but when he saw this soft wool cloche, today, in the same shade of deep, vibrant teal, he knew he had to buy it.

It even has a little gold-enamelled stick pin at one side: tiny, glistening cherries. _Perfect._

"So whose is it?"

Corrie's question jolts Greg from his satisfaction, and he looks up as she settles herself into the opposite seat with a quiet sigh of relief. "Hm? Sorry?"

"I saw you hiding that little Brighton's bag away. Lovely stuff in that shop, don't you think? Not really my style, though, all that fussy retro chic, and those chunky charm bracelets everyone seems to adore. Mum certainly wouldn't go for it, either, and Gaby still likes to shop at Hot Topic, God help me. So..." She trails off expectantly, cocking her head to one side.

He knows there's no getting out of it; best that he explains while Gaby is still waiting in line for their giant sweet pretzels and bottled water. "Yes, Cor, you've got me! I'm seeing someone. But," he holds up a hand to forestall her immediate questions, "it's not too serious yet! We're not rushing into anything."

Corrie's eyes go shrewd, in contrast with her wide smile; the effect of the familiar expression is even more unsettling now that they're both adults. "You wouldn't take up with the sort who'd want to date around. And I highly doubt there's anything _inexpensive_ you could have bought in there. So, 'not rushing' means you're probably trying to preserve a professional relationship—ooh, is it that lady pathologist you always talk about?" She sees the direct hit on his face, and claps her hands in delight. "Finally! Oh, Greg, that's _lovely_!"

"Finally? Have I been that obvious?"

"I'm your big sister," she chirps. "It's my _business_ to suss you out. You may be the detective in the family, but just remember I've got four years on you!"

"Yeah, all right. It's no use trying to fool you, is it," he replies, laughing easily, and thinking of the hundreds of times he's fooled her to keep his secret through the years.

 

.

 

Christmas morning is clear and windy; the previous day had brought unseasonably warm and spring-like rains, but now the temperature is rapidly dropping with the rising sun as if trying to compensate for its mistake. Greg wakes early, still not quite in tune with local time, and quietly puts the coffeemaker into action. Next he rummages carefully through the fridge, looking for something to eat that isn't likely to be reserved for Corrie's upcoming meal prep, but is saved the expediency of cold roast turkey and cranberry sauce on a bagel by her yawning arrival.

"Morning, love, and merry Christmas," she sighs as she shuffles in, pulling her zippered fleece housecoat closer about her neck. Her brassy, faded chestnut hair is a sleep-mussed halo that tickles his cheek when she leans in to give him a quick hug. "Away from the leftovers, you don't want that! I'll have sweet rolls done in fifteen minutes, and bacon; fried potatoes, after that, but I'll wait 'til everyone's up to do the eggs. If you can't wait, the biscuits are on the sideboard."

"Yeah, okay. Anything I can do to help, Cor?" He ducks around the doorframe to the dining room as he asks, lifting the plastic wrap on the biscuit tray and choosing out a few sugar-dusted almond crescents.

"You've made my coffee; that's plenty, ta! Now, I can't work in my kitchen with you underfoot today, I've too much to do. Find somewhere else to be for a while," she requests, shooing him away from the island before he can claim a stool.

It's a full house, with Mum occupying the second guest room; when Mike had arrived the previous afternoon with his fiancée Jenny, the young couple had claimed the basement den as their bedroom. Greg doesn't particularly want to take his coffee and biscuits back up to his bed, nor sit at the dining table, so he wanders off to the front room and settles into the armchair in the corner.

He's still there ten minutes later, rapt in mindless contemplation of the picture window and the bare, wind-tossed branches of the trees outside, when Gaby enters the room and distracts him from the view.

She's wearing flannel pyjama bottoms in a bright tartan plaid, and a grey hooded sweatshirt that looks large enough to fit her tall, muscle-bound brother. The hood is pulled up to cover her head, even though the house is toasty warm. Without a word of greeting, she makes a beeline to the decorated tree, squatting low before it; Greg presumes she has a last minute gift to add, or a forgotten tag to attach. But she's moving quite industriously, and the tree's branches are beginning to sway and shake under her hands.

After a few seconds of watching her back, Greg quietly says, "Good morning to you, too."

She startles violently, overbalancing to land with a thump on her backside. "Uncle Greg! I, uh, didn't see you there. G'morning—Merry Christmas!"

"What'cha doing? Shaking your presents?"

"No! No, of course not." Letting out a short, tense giggle, she rights herself and returns her attention to the tree. "Just fixing some of these ornaments. They're too low."

"Too low?"

"Yeah, I just remembered, when Aunt Carol comes in from Jersey later she'll have Dominic with her, and _he's_ about four—I shouldn't have put these glass ones on the bottom branches, where he could reach."

Greg sets his mug on the side table and crosses to the tree. "That's a smart thing to think of," he tells her. "Can I help?"

"Uh. Sure, you can do that side. Just up a few, or far enough inside that he won't reach in for them."

He peers through the boughs as he gets down on his knees, studying his niece's face. She's intent on her task, biting her lower lip in concentration; as he reaches into the tree closer to her, she raises a hand and tugs the slipping hood of her sweatshirt up over her hairline.

"Sleep well, last night?" he asks, casually.

Gaby hums vaguely in reply, and they work in silence for a minute.

Next he ventures, "Four years old, eh. A little troublemaker, is he?"

She pushes an angry huff through her nose and answers, "He gets into _everything_!"

Greg's eyes snap abruptly down from her half-obscured scowl, finding his own reflection in the shiny blue bauble he holds.

_No. Can't be. Can it?_

"My side's okay, now," Gaby says after a second, sounding relieved. "I've gotta use the bathroom, if you're good to finish?"

"Sure, yeah," he says, moving another ornament as she stands up. He cranes his neck from behind the tree to watch her go, and notes the hand that reaches up, adjusting the hood yet again.

She's the last of the family to appear, as the tempting aromas of Corrie's lavish breakfast spread through the house; her plaid bottoms are complemented by a coordinating T-shirt, now, and her long brown hair is swept into a complicated-looking plait that curves around one side of her head before falling down her back.

"That's a pretty French braid," Corrie compliments her, as she passes to lay the steaming platter of potatoes on the table. "You're getting very good at that."

"Thanks, Mom. Just practicing, this morning." Gaby ducks her head, picking idly at a loose thread in the patterned tablecloth. "It's good for volleyball."

Smiling at the mention of the sport, Jenny jumps at the chance to discuss a common interest with her future sister-in-law, and Mike happily interjects here and there with praises for both of their athletic achievements. Greg lets the conversation wash over him, outwardly content, but he watches his niece carefully from the corner of his eye; in his opinion, the complex hairdo would probably be enough to temporarily obscure more than a few unwanted silver hairs. If deliberate, though, it's done well enough that he can't discern any giveaway glinting, and he isn't certain he wants his growing suspicion confirmed, anyway.

He could be wrong. She's a charming young woman, active and social; at her age, Greg was withdrawing into himself, finding safety in solitude as he threw his focus into his police training—and Ted was burying his worries in books.

He _wants_ to be wrong.

Nevertheless, he sees some interesting correspondence with his uncle in his very near future.

 

.

 

Despite Greg's gnawing curiosity, the morning progresses quite pleasantly. Gifts are exchanged, along with a bit of friendly teasing and a great deal of laughter, and then the family divides itself roughly into two groups to find entertainment. Pat and Mum lounge on the sofa watching television, and Corrie joins them after a time; Greg isn't really a fan of _A Christmas Story_ and ends up following the younger set to the basement, instead. There he's called upon to act as the fourth player in a rollicking, silly game of _Mario Party_. He frowns his way through the first few strange contests, clumsy and unfamiliar with the game remote's wide variety of necessary gestures, but after a time he gets the hang of it, earning loud whoops and cheers when he manages to hop his mustachioed character safely across a course of colourful spinning platforms. In that trial, and in the shooting games, he comes out well ahead of the others, but he graciously accepts defeat when it comes to contests of rapid, repetitive shaking or paddling.

At about a quarter of noon, the nearly hour-long competition ends in a come-from-behind victory for Jenny's orange princess; Mike suggests another cooperative game, this one apparently music-based. Greg laughs and begs to be allowed to sit and watch for a while, instead.

"I'm knackered," he says, "give an old man a break! Go ahead and start without me; I need a cup of tea or something, I'll be back in a few."

The siblings move to prepare the game system, their friendly bickering rising behind Greg as he mounts the stairs. He pauses out of sight to chuckle softly at a particularly humorous crack from Gaby, and Jenny's distinctive snort of high-pitched laughter in response.

But he doesn't make it to the door at the upper end. As the three below him dissolve into giggles, his own breathing stutters and seizes, and he stumbles up a few more steps, turning to seat himself at the midpoint of the narrow, dimly lit stairwell. His hands clench on the banister rails at either side, at the level of his head; he leans over into one wrist, muffling his gaping, straining mouth against his skin. Sending up a quick prayer that none of the kids discover him, he braces himself.

A vast, twilit expanse of sky spins out before him to fill his view, its breadth entirely curtained in puckered, shadowed clouds. Greg twists wildly to orient himself, startled: rarely have his ripples begun at such dizzying altitude, without even the reference point of a tall building to steady him.

_Where am I? Where's Sherlock?_

Only one building is visible to break the languid rhythm of the rolling hills below. It sits planted astride them rather than nestling among them, an imperious modernist palace with a curving spire of steel aimed irreverently upwards. As Greg looks it over with an immediate pang of distaste for its flashy design, he becomes aware of the sound that had risen along with the vision, a hollow beating in the open air.

 _Helicopter,_ he thinks, casting his eyes around to see its dark shape close behind him. It's moving in towards the mansion. This must be where Sherlock is—Greg shifts in his bodiless presence and shoves up through its hull without hesitation.

There are three men inside; Mycroft Holmes is the only one of interest. From his seat in the cockpit, he appears to be listening intently to his headset; frustrated, Greg slips inside his mind for the first time in years.

"—patio at the west side of the house," a curt voice is saying in Mycroft's ear.

"Advance, but do not engage," Mycroft answers. "I'll have a better sight angle momentarily." He throws a glance at the pilot, and the command in it is palpable from Greg's position behind his eyes—it's strange to realise that the familiar expression, experienced from the inside, has much in common with the feel of his own _push_. Unsurprisingly, the chopper swings around at once and takes a sharper tack downward, revealing the dark figures of a number of men creeping up across the lawn, rifles held at the ready.

Beyond them on the wide patio, three men stand backlit by the building's glass wall; Sherlock is recognisable even at this distance, standing away from the other two, his back nearly against the glass.

"Does Magnussen have the laptop?" Mycroft asks his radio. "Can you see it?"

"No, sir. Target may have surrendered it inside the house."

A twinge of controlled anxiety threads into Greg's perception, and is echoed—neither of them like to see this many weapons in Sherlock's proximity. Frankly, Greg also has a real problem with the term _target_ , but Mycroft seems used to that.

"Get closer, keep looking! It must be recovered," he says, then thumbs off the microphone switch to mutter under the noise of the rotors, "What is he playing at?"

"Move in," says the voice on the ground to his cohorts. "Arms at the ready." A scattering of short confirmations follows.

" _Sherlock Holmes and John Watson_ ," booms Mycroft over the external loudspeaker. " _Stand away from that man_."

Down below, there's a reactive shuffle of movement; John remains where he is, while Sherlock steps up closer. _What are they saying?_ Greg is tempted to go down to them, but he knows he'd lose the advantage of the comms if he did.

Mycroft repeats his request more firmly as the helicopter draws ever nearer, and the third man—Magnussen, that unpleasant soul—waves his arms a bit and shouts something inaudible.

The radio crackles again in Mycroft's ear: "Target is not armed. I repeat, target is not armed." Most of the advancing men are taking aim, now; John looks agitated from this distance, but Magnussen is smiling, his bearing clearly triumphant as he turns and speaks. Sherlock appears to be shrinking in on himself.

Greg begins to exert a little pressure, wary of Mycroft's intentions. _You won't let them rush in. You won't let him be hurt..._

Mycroft shifts uncomfortably in his seat harness. He touches the loudspeaker switch again. " _Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, stand away from that man. Do it now_."

Then Sherlock's head snaps up abruptly, and something in his expression turns Greg's blood to ice; the crisp focus of the mind around him shatters in almost the same moment, a piercing sense of disbelief as Mycroft deduces his brother's intent.

"No," Mycroft breathes, so softly that even Greg can barely hear it—and Greg watches through his eyes in horrified slow motion as Sherlock produces John's pistol and swings it towards Magnussen's head, his mouth shaping a defiant declaration.

The gunshot is inaudible from within the chopper, but the headset erupts with shouts as the man jerks and falls backwards. In a single motion Sherlock tosses the weapon away and lifts his hands skyward, turning towards the armed officers breaking into a run towards him—Mycroft stares, utterly frozen, his mind wiped blank.

 _Stop them,_ Greg urges, and when it has no effect on the shocked man he raises his voice to the equivalent of a panicked bellow— _STOP them! Mycroft, NOW!_

Flinching from the violent _push_ , Mycroft shudders into motion again at last, frantically fumbling at the microphone switch. "Stand fire," he exclaims, then flips over to the loudspeaker to shout directly at the men. " _Do not fire on Sherlock Holmes_! _Do not fire_!"

Laser sights already dot Sherlock’s face and chest, despite the orders; electrified by fear, Greg releases his hold on Mycroft and pushes out of the cockpit at full speed, launching himself at his charge without thought.

_No—_

He's mindless, heedless, guided by more than instinct—and as he reaches Sherlock, he changes as he's never known possible. The sensation of it is something like curling into a tight ball, but also like facing outward, with nonexistent limbs thrown wide and shielding.

It's also, distressingly, like breaking apart; like bursting, like burning.

The darkening sky, the glare of the helicopter's lowering search beam, and the black-armoured shapes of the approaching men all blur together, dimming under the force of his staunch refusal. He's not _Greg Lestrade_ , now—not a _man_ , hovering near and watching through the lens of his own reasoning—he is but this: a single imperative, white-hot and unyielding, that touches everyone at once and stays each trigger finger.

_**NO!** _

Isolated at the untouched centre of the impossible maelstrom that is Greg's essence, vivid in a single remaining point of crisp focus, Sherlock gives John one last look over his shoulder. "Give my love to Mary. Tell her she's safe now," he calls over the chaos, his face twisting with despair, and he sinks to his knees in surrender as Greg's vision whites out into searing light.

 

.

 

Air returns to Greg as a warm shock, and the gentle glow cast up from the bottom of the stairs slowly obscures the throbbing, fading after-image of Sherlock's face. Lines of hard pressure against his arse and back confirm that he's still safely planted on the steps, and surprisingly still conscious, even as the echoes of that unreal sensation of being _fractured_ wash over him in tingling, nauseous waves.

 _Fuck,_ he thinks, blurrily relieved to have come back to himself at all.

His arms spasm and tremble as he pries his grip from the banisters—a sick headache is quickly swelling behind his eyes. Below him, they're still spiritedly discussing the song choice with which to begin their new game.

It hasn't been more than a minute; he hasn't been missed. If he hurries away now, perhaps they'll forget he promised to return.

Standing with some difficulty, he climbs the last few stairs and slips out into the hall, careful to work the latch silently. He hastens to his brightly sunlit bedroom on shaky legs; door safely locked behind him, he collapses on the bed with one arm thrown across his face.

Greg can't yet fathom the magnitude of the feat that's left him so physically drained. Neither is he able to process the implications of what Sherlock has done. All he can do is lie there, shivering and wrecked, until he falls into a fitful sleep.

 

\-----

 


	23. Last Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's air, but he may as well be drowning; whatever happens next, it's bound to be nothing good.

  
**23\. Last Chance**  


.

 

When Greg wakes, muzzy and aching, the midday glare has faded to deep twilight. As his eyes register its dark blue colour, he jolts upright—the memory of spinning beneath the clouds, and all that came after, crystallises with upsetting clarity.

 _I can't believe I came back from that,_ he thinks, swallowing a twinge of nausea at the bright, blurred half-memory of the vision's last seconds. _What I did..._

 _What he did,_ he amends, after a moment. _Sherlock—he really killed that man. Oh, fucking hell._

A child's high-pitched shriek filters up from downstairs, and he checks his watch, wincing: it's past four thirty. He's managed to miss the arrival of tonight's guests, and everyone probably thinks him the worst sort of layabout, Christmas or not.

After a hurried stop in the loo to splash a little water on his face and comb his hair, he hurries downstairs to present himself. The family is gathered in the front room, chatting and laughing at little Dominic's playful antics while seasonal music plays at low volume.

"Sorry," Greg says, in response to the cheer that greets him. "Why didn't anyone come get me?"

"I tried," replies Gaby. "But you were snoring, like, _really_ loud!"

"All that Wii must've tuckered you out," Mike says with a laugh.

"That, and the mimosas with breakfast, I'll wager. Not exactly my usual morning fare!" Greg grins and steps carefully around the child on the floor to offer Pat's sister a quick handshake before retreating. "Carol, hi, it's nice to see you again; you're looking well...uh, I've got to get something to drink, can I bring anyone anything? Mum?"

Mum grabs Pat's hand and uses it to lever herself out of the centre of the sofa. "I'll just come with you, dear; I want to bring out the cheese tray."

In the kitchen, she fusses with the cheese and crackers while Greg chugs a tall glass of water and immediately refills it. "While we're here, Mum," he says between more reserved sips as his body registers much-needed relief, "there's something I need to talk to you about."

"Oh? Pass me the sesame sticks, there, love."

By the time he turns back from retrieving the box, he's got his game face on. "I got a call—that's what woke me; a time sensitive tip came in on a human trafficking ring I've been after, and Frank can't run it down on his own. I told him that he should get someone else, that I was visiting family, but..."

"But you're the man for the job?"

"It's my _case_ ," he says, letting a little of the urgency he feels seep into his voice. "I took down Ricoletti, but he'd passed off control of the ring before we nabbed him. I've been after this for _years_!" Lie upon lie—it has to be more important than a run-of-the-mill homicide, doesn't it? All he has to do is find an excuse, later, when Mum's nosy pal Bernice fails to pass on any matching news clippings. Something about the government getting involved should do it.

She nods thoughtfully and continues slicing the cheddar. "If you're asking whether I mind flying home on my own, you needn't worry. I make this trip by myself once a year, too!"

"I know; I just feel awful, running out on everyone three days early..."

"It can't be helped, can it? You got to have Christmas with us, and a lovely few days' visit beforehand, and we're all glad of it. You do good and important work, Greg; nobody here will hold that against you," she assures him, pausing mid-slice to level a serious look over her glasses.

"Thanks, Mum," he sighs, squeezing her shoulder fondly. "I knew you'd understand."

 

.

 

Guilt drives Greg to make the most of his remaining hours with his family, putting on a social smile and paying close attention to every conversation. He even takes his turn entertaining Dominic, albeit a brief one; though he still feels fearfully out of his depth, the blond child is sweet-tempered and easy to please. (Despite Gaby's vehement concern, he never so much as ventures towards the tree—another point in favour of Greg's suspicions.)

Friday brings an early morning round of goodbyes, and Mike takes him to the airport; he spends most of the long day's flight with his nose in the book that had been his gift from Pat. It's a flashy, action-packed novel, full of international political intrigue and looming terrorist threats, featuring a world-weary, sarcastic hero pulled back from exile to save the day and get the girl in the process...Greg reads it from cover to cover before the plane touches down at Heathrow, but it's hardly entertaining enough to completely take his mind off his own unfolding drama.

It's past nine at night, when he arrives back at his flat at last; he roams restlessly between rooms for a while, wondering if perhaps his decisions to cut his trip short and arrange for another full week's time off work had been a bit rash. He'd hoped, at least, to have a missed call or a message waiting on his mobile when he'd powered it on at the end of the flight. There's nothing on the news yet about the powerful newspaper magnate's untimely death, but that's no real surprise.

 _Maybe nobody will think of me at all,_ he sighs to himself, picking up the silent phone and dialling, _but it's better to be here, close, just in case..._

"Greg! Happy Christmas," Molly says warmly at his ear. "How's your visit going?"

"It's done, actually; I've just got back into London early," he tells her. "There was—um. You know."

"Was there? Oh, no." Bless her, she never seems fazed by his awkward hesitations. He makes a mental note to discuss some kind of code word with her, soon.

"Yeah, it's okay—well, _I'm_ okay. I don't know much, yet. I just wanted to tell you I was home..."

"I could come over, if you like," she offers, gentle concern evident in her voice.

"Thanks, Molly, but it's been a long day travelling; come over now, and I'll either keep you up all night talking in circles, or pass out before the tea's made, even odds. Tomorrow, though?"

"Tomorrow, sure. I'll be at work 'til four, maybe we can have dinner?"

"Yeah, that works. My place this time, say, five thirty—give you a chance to swing home and feed Toby?"

"You read my mind." She doesn't giggle, but her obvious amusement warms him. "I'll let you go, then. Mind you get some rest—"

The end of her sentence is covered over by a loud beep. "I will, soon as I can," he says quickly. "I've another call coming in, I'll text you, okay?"

She stammers out an agreeable goodbye as he clicks over, and then she's replaced by a more agitated voice. "Greg, I'm glad I've caught you."

"I was just unpacking from my trip," Greg says, thankful that they hadn't discussed his specific travel itinerary last week. "Everything okay, John?"

"Not remotely," John answers heavily. "You say you're back in London, then? I am, too, _finally_. I'm in a cab now, actually; is it okay if I come to you?"

"Uh, sure..." He rattles off his address, hoping he doesn't seem too relieved.

John repeats it loudly for the cabbie's benefit, then looses a sigh substantial enough to have propelled him backwards into the seat. "Thanks. This'll be easier in person."

If Greg weren't already aware what news was coming, in a general sense, that brief conversation would have set all his warning bells ringing wild. As it is, he pockets the phone and rubs hard at his forehead, allowing himself a brief moment to wallow in resigned dread.

Then he puts the kettle on, and pulls out two glasses and a bottle of scotch for good measure.

 

.

 

John steps in past Greg as soon as the door opens to his knock, utterly dispensing with any of the pleasantries that might be expected upon visiting an acquaintance's home for the first time. When Greg flips the deadbolt and turns around he finds John facing him, standing in the centre of the narrow entry hallway with hands on hips, as if Greg were the new arrival. In place of a greeting, he asks sharply, "Do you know already? Has Mycroft told you?"

Greg blinks. "Told me what?"

The accusing pose melts away: he begins to wring his hands together and fidget. "I would've called you earlier! But there were interrogations to go through, and I was in local custody a while before things were straightened out enough that I could be released, and arrange for a cab; they didn't let me have my phone until I left the station—"

"John."

"—and then there was _Mary_ to deal with, I had to see her safely home; she was furious, let me tell you, but I got her settled in and then I just couldn't _stay_ there—"

" _John_. Take a breath. I've got no idea what you're talking about! Here, come in, take your coat off and _sit_. Tea, or Glenfiddich?"

John eyes the liquor, but accepts the tea; he doesn't settle for long, though. As he explains how a cozy Christmas Day at the Holmes family cottage had suddenly become a houseful of drugged relatives and a grim excursion to confront the master blackmailer, his agitation ramps up steadily. By the time he reaches the revelation that Magnussen's supposed records vault had actually been a memory technique similar to Sherlock's, the mug is abandoned to a side table and he's pacing Greg's living room, marking off erratic circles in the carpeting.

"We couldn't do anything about it. He'd won, and he knew it! I had to stand there and let him touch me, humiliate me, just to show how he _owned_ us, and Sherlock was forced to stand by watching him fucking gloat over every flick of my face..."

"God," rasps Greg, sitting forward in his chair and tightening both hands around his own mug. This was the scene he'd come in at the end of? He remembers the slick, unpleasant feeling of being in that man's head, and shudders. Awful as it is, he can't dredge up much regret that Magnussen is dead—and that, of course, is the next part of John's story.

"He _shot_ him, Greg! Fuck, he just—" John stops short and screws the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Right in front of me. _No_ hesitation. Reached over, took the pistol straight out of my waistband, and bloody shot him in the head! Point-blank!"

Greg tries to respond with appropriate shock, but finds that his throat has locked up around the memory of the disturbing sight; he settles for squeezing his eyes shut and forcing out a long, strangled groan.

"And now Mycroft won't answer my calls, and Anthea is stonewalling me, too; I've tried and tried. I need to know he's all right. They've locked him up, he's been arrested and they won't tell me anything—I need to _know_!"

"Yeah," he agrees, hanging his head to stare bleakly at the floor between his knees. "Yeah, we need to know."

"You can get a meeting with Mycroft, though. Can't you? You could get him to tell you what's going on, and where they've been holding him!"

He looks up, chagrined. "I don't know, John. You just said he's not taking calls—"

"If anyone can talk Mycroft around, surely _you_ can, Greg," John points out, his eyes bright and pleading.

"What, _me_?" Sure, Greg's had a long professional acquaintance with the man, and had managed to wrangle a favour from him once or twice in that time...but John's tone leaves no doubt that he's thinking in the more biblical sense.

And _that_ would be an unsettling enough thought as it is, _without_ the fresh memory of having been inside Mycroft's head. _Bloody hell._

"Right...I might just have a string I could pull," he says, standing after a moment and moving into the path of John's anxious pacing. "I dunno if it'll work; I'll give it a shot, though, and tell you whatever I can find out. But, John?"

"Yeah?"

Greg reaches out to grip both of John's upper arms, forcing the man's attention as he says in the most compelling tone he can muster, "Please, understand: I have not been, nor will I _ever be_ , in any sort of _relationship_ with Mycroft fucking _Holmes_."

He doesn't know how much clearer he can be about it, honestly. And now he really, really wants that drink.

 

.

 

It takes fifteen attempts over the course of the next day and a half, but the woman John apparently knows as "Anthea" does, eventually, bow to Greg's insistent request for a meeting. He expects to be issued a time to present himself in the usual way, to be led down to that dim, shadowed bunker office. Instead, the instructions he gets are very different.

It's his first time at the Diogenes, actually, and he finds it much as John had described it to him years ago: stuffy, ornate, and purposefully intimidating. He wonders if he's been called here for exactly that reason—the office carries its own commanding weight, but he's long since become too familiar with it to be properly cowed by mirrors and forbidding grey walls.

Or, perhaps it has nothing to do with Greg at all. Mycroft may simply require a separation between his workplace and such a personal issue.

A silent attendant ushers Greg into the Strangers' Room, with its rich panelling and high, viewless windows. Mycroft stands facing away, hands clasped behind his back. He's making a show of looking over the contents of a tall bookcase built into the far wall, and he doesn't look around as he makes his dry greeting. "Inspector."

"Thank you for meeting with me," Greg says, stepping in as far as the nearest wingback chair but no further. The door closes with a soft _snick_ behind him.

"It became apparent that your tireless persistence was poised to outlast my assistant's patience," Mycroft intones. "I presume you've spoken with Dr Watson?"

"Yes. He came to see me Friday night and told me what happened."

"Then you realise the gravity of the current situation." Mycroft glances just once over his shoulder, the words dropping from his lips like brittle shards. "If you harbour the illusion that I can snap my fingers and make this problem disappear, I must regrettably inform you otherwise."

"I know. And that isn't why I've come."

"Sherlock has committed a serious crime, before multiple witnesses. There's nothing you or John can do to help him."

"Maybe not, but that doesn't stop either of us wanting to know what's happening! You can't just shut us out, like this. You must know John's half-mad with worry?"

Mycroft's shoulders stiffen, then slump after a moment in mute recognition of his point. Still, he doesn't turn to face the room.

"So, where is he now? John thinks he's in gaol—you haven't allowed that, surely? There's no prison safe for him, not with his notoriety..." _And his inability to keep his mouth shut,_ Greg doesn't add aloud.

"He is locked up, yes, but in a private government facility. Solitary confinement: no danger will come to him from the criminal class."

"Solitary?" Greg blinks, momentarily bewildered as his worries are abruptly relieved and replaced by a host of new concerns. "But...can he handle that?"

Mycroft turns abruptly from his dour study of the books and snaps, "Do you believe me _negligent_ , Inspector Lestrade?"

His hands tighten upon the deep crimson leather of the chair back; he's stepped defensively behind it without even realising. "N-no; no, of course not, Mr Holmes."

"Of course not," Mycroft repeats firmly. "I have my brother's best interest at heart. This is a delicate matter; my reach extends only so far. Murder cannot be punished _lightly_!"

Greg dips his head in a rueful nod. "I understand."

Something flickers over Mycroft's face, as he steps closer—a hint of regret, perhaps, or of another, softer emotion held rigidly in check. His voice has lost its edge when he says, "You may rest assured, this confinement is not permanent. I've spent the past two days in strenuous negotiations on his behalf, and as of this very morning the agreement has been finalised. Sherlock will be given a mission to undertake in restitution for his crime, a certain matter of concern in Eastern Europe. He must _serve_ his country, before he may be permitted to return to it."

"What, like...like an _exile_?" Greg's heart lurches in his chest at the thought.

"Crude terminology. Nevertheless, the arrangements are in place. Sherlock shall board a jet at week's end. And before you accuse me of being heartless, yes; I will endeavour to allow John to join me in seeing him off."

"Let _me_ see him," Greg blurts. "Please, Mycr—Mr _Holmes_ , please, just let me speak with him. Just once?"

"A private visitation? You expect me to call in those favours, for _you_?"

"You _owe_ me." He knows it's a gamble, but he has to say it. "All these years: helping get him to rehab, taking the gun for you, going where you've pointed me; Baskerville, _all_ of it. I've done everything you've asked of me, and more. All I'm asking in return is one visit, before you send him away!"

Mycroft looks him over silently; Greg stands firm under the scalpel of the searching gaze, offering up a loyal mentor's concern for study—and praying the rest doesn't show.

"I'll see what I can do," says Mycroft at last, and Greg shares the sadness in his voice.

 

.

 

The week drags on towards New Year's, an almost intolerable wait despite the extra time Molly spends with him. She listens to his ramblings late into the nights, at his flat or at hers, patient and understanding. In a doomed attempt to ease his nerves he talks himself hoarse, loosening his usual self-restraint enough to rant at an invisible Sherlock—at the invisible force that bound the two of them together this way—at the _unfairness_ of it all.

"...God, and it _is_ unfair," he tells her. It's New Year's Eve; they've taken their bottle of wine and some old blankets up to the deserted roof of her building, to sit under the dimly visible stars and listen to the festive, muffled echoes of loud parties going on elsewhere in the neighbourhood. "Not just that I'm losing him, all over again—but _you_ , too."

"Me?" She sounds faintly incredulous, but the sensation of her delicate fingers carding through his hair is too pleasing for him to look up from her lap and check her expression. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Not what I meant, sorry. Just—us, here? The position I've put you in, the reason we've been seeing so much of each other, it isn't fair to you, is it? I'm practically neurotic over all this, and you're a _saint_ , truly, but you deserve more from me. Here I've been spouting off at you, for what, five nights running now, like a bloody mental patient—and I haven't even taken you out anyplace nice! Tonight, of all nights, you should be out somewhere special."

"I thought I _was_ someplace special," she says softly.

"Mm, that's true. Anywhere you are is someplace special."

They fall silent for a time. Her right hand continues to comb slowly through his hair, until he turns his head to catch her lowest stroke and nuzzle his cheek into her palm.

"Have you decided to make any resolutions?" The question drags his lips against her fingers; he makes the last syllable into a subtle kiss, before shifting to push himself upright and sit facing her.

"Call my mum more often. Travel—at least one good trip; I haven't been anywhere in ages. Build up my savings account, a little. Um, those two might not work so well, together."

"Yeah, I guess it depends where you're looking to go." He tilts his head a little, mentally erasing the bulk of her overcoat and bundled blankets to imagine her in a swimsuit on a secluded beach. _And with whom._

"What about you?"

"Ah, I don't do so well with resolutions. Too risky to really go changing too much about my life, the way it is. For me, it's not 'call my mum more often,' it's 'lie to my mum more often,' you know?"

She nods. "But if you had to pick something?"

"Well, usually I just go with resolving to survive another year, sad as that sounds. But now..." He sighs and squints upwards, following the tiny red-white flashing of a jet as it appears to glide among the stars. "It'd be nice to make up for at least some of the mistakes I've made. If you'll let me try."

Molly doesn't say anything; a familiar worm of apprehension twists in Greg's stomach, and he presses his eyes briefly shut with a silent curse—but then he drops his gaze from the sky and looks over. The flush of colour high on her cheeks is visible even in the rooftop's low light; her lips are parted as she stares at him, frozen in anticipation.

"God, you're so beautiful," he says, his voice dropping roughly. He reaches out to her, taking the hand that emerges from the folds of fabric and clasping it between both of his. "Molly. I've wasted so much time, out of fear. I wish— _Christ_ , if only I'd had the guts to tell you, three and a half years ago, how I'd fallen for you—"

" _Had_ you?" It's barely a breath.

Nodding helplessly, he strokes his thumbs over her knuckles. "And then I had my chance, didn't I, but I thought you didn't want—I fucked it up, Molls. The worst mistake I ever made was letting you leave that table thinking I didn't care for you!"

"Why couldn't you have just told me?" She tips her head down to look at their joined hands; somewhere below, the noise of gathered revellers kicks up louder.

"Because of what I am. I was scared of _lying_ to you, any more than I already had to. You're so brilliant, and kind, and sweet; you shouldn't _ever_ have to be with someone dishonest!"

"Well, I'm not," Molly says, meeting his eyes. " _I'm_ with the most honest, honourable liar in all of London." She shifts up on her knees and leans in; the noise of the parties resolves itself into the distant, ragged chant of the year's final countdown as she closes the distance, opening her other arm to wrap her blanket over his shoulder.

When she kisses him, there are most definitely fireworks.

 

.

 

On New Year's Day, Greg is granted his visit at last. Mycroft gives neither explanation nor apology for having kept him waiting so long, and in fact is not present in the black car that arrives with just three hours' advance warning at his flat.

Mycroft's assistant _is_ there, though she's even more taciturn than usual: she barely meets his eyes when accepting Greg's nervous greeting, and the thick waves of her hair are wound up into an uncharacteristically severe knot. During the hour-long ride she taps at her phone with the air of being genuinely busy, rather than merely diligent; Greg watches her through surreptitious glances, wondering what extra duties she's had to handle as a result of the week's special circumstances. He probably hasn't made things any easier on her, pestering her all week long for reassurance that Mr Holmes wasn't forgetting their agreement. He hopes that she takes his careful silence as the apology it is.

The facility itself is nondescript, a low building of greyish brick that sits isolated at the back of a dusty gravel lot, somewhere vaguely south of the city. It doesn't look like a prison, or even a government office; only the thick gated wall and the squat guardhouse at the entry betray it as anything other than a declining, aged manufacturing site. Their driver pulls around, tyres crunching on rough stone, to a roofed port at the rear. There they wait, under the eye of another obviously armed guard, until a balding man with a clipboard emerges to approach the car. A second man follows close behind, wearing the distinctive wand of a handheld metal detector clipped at his belt.

"You'll be brought back to us in forty-five minutes," says the nameless PA; "it's the best we could arrange." She touches the button to unlock the doors.

Nodding his understanding and thanks, Greg steps out and follows the two men away from the vehicle; in the open space between the drive and the building, he's stopped and asked to surrender his wallet, keys, and mobile. He submits silently and unflinchingly to the very thorough pat-down and search, carried out in full view of the car's remaining occupants and the armed guard—honestly, at this point he'd be willing to suffer far greater humiliation, if required.

Eventually, they allow him to step inside; after basic instructions and warnings, and his signature on a few forms, he's led down to a below-ground level, unsurprisingly. It's unclear how many sensitive prisoners are in residence, or even how many storeys down the facility extends—the lift utilises a key card, and has no visible floor indicator—but at least twenty thick steel doors line the corridor. Like each of the others, the sixth door on the left is complete with a pass-thru hatch for meal trays and an observation window in the shape of a small letter slot. Greg peers grimly through it as his escort fumbles for the proper key and security code.

The cell is relentlessly featureless: bland beige with minimal white trim, khaki-coloured bedding, narrow bed and low round table but no chair, stainless steel privy separated by a stubby dividing wall. Greg feels a pang at seeing the space, at the way Sherlock sits hunched at the foot of the bed with his head lowered and hands clasped, clad in a loose jumpsuit of drab cotton. He looks small, under the white glare of simulated daylight that floods the room. Anyone else might presume he was meditating, and perhaps he's trying to, but Greg sees the posture as defeat, submission to a cruelly enforced sensory deprivation.

 _How can Mycroft allow this?_ he thinks, clenching his jaw in uneasy distaste. _For someone like Sherlock, it's...unkind. God, maybe Mycroft hasn't got as much authority over this whole thing as he'd like to believe?_

When the door squeals open on its rarely-used hinges, Sherlock pulls his head up, blinking, and watches Greg take the few steps into the small space. He swallows and moistens his lips, watching the door close and lock once more before speaking hoarsely. "I'm surprised they've let you in to see me."

"Me, too," Greg answers honestly.

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, looking him up and down as if assessing him. Greg tries not to let his anger show on his face; it's not anger at Sherlock.

Not _entirely_.

"Why are you here?" asks Sherlock, frowning deeply.

"Seems like every time you do something impulsive and idiotic, I end up visiting you in a cell," says Greg, trying for flippancy. "Figured this should be no exception."

"That's admirably consistent of you." A pause hangs between them. "I presume you know how fortuitous your timing is."

"I know you're getting shipped off tomorrow, yeah. Your brother seemed pretty proud of himself, having negotiated a work arrangement for you—better than fifteen-to-life in _here_ , I'd wager."

"More eventful at least, I suppose. So, John...?" Sherlock's eyes flick up to him again, shadowed beneath an unkempt mass of curls.

Greg nods and steps closer, gentling his voice. "John's okay. They turned him loose about twenty-four hours later. He told me what he could, but I have to say I'm still unclear on a few things. Like, why you thought it was a good idea arranging that meeting in the first place?"

"I had a responsibility to—to my client. To the whole of England, if you will. Magnussen had his clammy fingers around the necks of hundreds of powerful public figures; his machinations _had_ to be stopped, by any means necessary—"

"Yeah, okay—all right, I get it." He rolls his shoulders, clenching a fist in his pocket. " _Murder_ , though. Cold-blooded, before a gang of government and police witnesses? That was plain stupid, Sherlock!"

"Had there been any other way, believe me, I would gladly have taken it. That man..." Sherlock grimaces at some memory with a small shake of his head. "I don't expect you to _understand_ , Lestrade. I did what I had to do."

"Well." Greg shifts on his feet. "You'll do this Eastern European job, whatever it is, and that'll settle the score, right? When you come home, all will be forgiven." He says it firmly, as if he can make it true by force of will alone; in his mind's eye he already holds the carefully sketched image of a reunion, John smiling wide and Greg standing watchful in the background.

Sherlock stares at the floor, shaking his head slowly. "No," he says, almost inaudibly, and then stronger: "No, Lestrade. I'm not—this isn't that sort of mission. I'm told it's estimated at about six months; if I'm very successful, I just might survive for _eight_ before..."

The import of Sherlock's words hits Greg all at once. A breath catches in his throat; he spins and sits on the free side of the bed with a heavy thump.

"Don't tell John," says Sherlock next, looking over at him with wide, unguarded eyes. "You mustn't tell _John_. Please."

"I—I won't. I promise." The self-control Greg's practised for years is in tatters; he drops his head and pushes his hands roughly through his hair. Instead of being comforting, the action serves only to remind him of the silver-grey, and what has put it there—and a rush of frustrated, fearful despair bubbles up from within. "How could you let it come to this? Fucking—God, you're not even all that bloody _upset_ , are you?"

There's a small sound from the man beside him, but he can't stop the furious words from bubbling up and out.

"You don't _get_ it, do you! This isn't a game—you can't just keep risking yourself like this! You never even _think_ about what you're facing!"

Sherlock waves a hand, airily dismissing Greg's anger. "And why should I?" he asks, his voice firming into its accustomed carelessness as if he'd simply needed a scolding to return to himself. "It's not as if anything has ever really _happened_ to me."

Greg feels like his eyes are about to bug out of his head, like his heart is a flailing weight on a chain being spun against the inside of his ribs. "All your damn _life_ , Sherlock," he grates out. "Over and over, no matter what careless gamble you took..."

" _All_ my life? You've known me for all of ten years, and you feel you can infer the events of the other twenty-eight? How very quaint. I suppose, yes; there _were_ a few incidents that might have gone badly. The carefree dangers of youth. I realise _you're_ well acquainted with danger, Lestrade; you've spent years seeing it around every corner, and hiding your shameful panic attacks from the world, after all!"

"Fear is wise, in the face of danger," Greg protests, baring his teeth. "And the opposite of it should _never_ be foolhardiness like yours!"

Sherlock snorts. "Perhaps I _was_ a bit impetuous, as a boy. But there was always someone around. Whenever misfortune befell me in my youth, there were people who saved me from serious harm."

" _People_ ," says Greg, losing control of his emotions bit by bit, even as he tries desperately to clamp his lips shut and stop himself from giving anything more away.

Sherlock turns his head, slowly, like an owl alerted to a rustling in the brush. Greg sees the movement in the corner of his eye, and every cell in his body screams at him to _freeze_ , to _run_.

"Yes," Sherlock says, a thoughtful murmur. "People. Usually...strangers."

Greg hangs his head in a pained nod, rubbing the back of his neck and blowing a long, shaky breath towards the floor. "Just good luck, I guess," he manages; his voice cracks on the last word, and he presses his eyes shut.

There's a long moment of silence. When Sherlock next speaks, his words sound carefully chosen. "You really do carry this paternal instinct of yours a bit overboard, sometimes, Lestrade."

 _Joke's on you,_ Greg thinks ruefully, _I've been saddled with a paternal instinct for your sorry arse since I was thirteen..._

Something in his manner has tweaked Sherlock's interest, again. He knows he should back off, cover over the truth with his usual gruff routine. But by this point Greg's tired, more than anything: tired of secrets, tired of endless lies, _heartsick_ with nearly thirty-eight years of standing witness to all of the worst moments, and never quite being able to help enough to keep either of them whole.

Suddenly he finds he doesn't _care_ about hiding, not anymore...not from the man he's built his whole life around.

Not when they're poised at the edge of a precipice like this.

_No more._

Greg bites the inside of his lip, and raises his head; he turns to face Sherlock directly, deliberately, meeting the younger man's eyes with no shred of his usual artifice, and he waits.

It takes a while for Sherlock to react, but eventually he seems to begin to grasp that there's a message.

"I know," Greg says very softly, measuring the words out like precious parcels, "because I was _there_. Not just those strangers."

Pale eyes, hollowed with fatigue, flick up, to the side: _cameras_. Greg had forgotten, in his upset. But he sees from the silent signal that the two of them are on the same page, even though Sherlock clearly isn't convinced of what's on it yet.

A cold knot of fear lodges in his windpipe, but he swallows it down and continues, holding Sherlock's intent gaze as he tries to will his understanding. "What's that you used to tell me, Sherlock? Once you've eliminated the impossible..."

Sherlock frowns. "But...what remains...it's _still_ impossible."

Shaking his head slightly, Greg wets his lips. "Highly improbable, I'll grant you. I would have said impossible, too...when I was twelve."

A blink, and a disbelieving twitch of Sherlock's head—but Greg can _feel_ he's almost there. He can see the gears turning, see him doing the math. Greg waits until Sherlock looks at him again, and then he leans in close to his ear and steels himself to quickly, quietly breathe the words that will take him well past the point of no return:

"You wanted to catch a wren, but a roof tile beside the chimney was loose. A bully with blond hair fell down the back stairwell. You climbed up the side of the Humanities building at uni. A woman wearing red gloves got the drop on you in Las Vegas."

Sherlock pulls back, visibly shaken. His jaw works, he makes a second aborted glance to the presumed cameras; finally he whispers, "How...?"

"I don't know. Nor why. And now isn't the time," Greg answers, sitting back away from him again. His voice only trembles a little when he adds, "Maybe someday, you can help me figure it out."

"I, ah. I think you're forgetting something fairly _critical_ , Lestrade."

He hasn't. Sherlock's words— _six months, eight_ —are still echoing in his head, making his stomach roll and twist, but he pushes past them stubbornly. "Yeah, well, I know what I know, and now you know what you know. So how's about you just plan to be safe out there? You come on home, and then we'll talk."

Sherlock still looks dubious. The fingertips of his left hand are curled inwards, drumming against his palm in spasmodic rhythms. "And you'll be..."

Greg nods, feeling his throat getting tight. "Right, well, my time's about up; I should go before they send someone in after me," he says loudly, standing with an abrupt smack of his palms on his thighs. Quieter, he adds, "Look...I was lucky to be allowed this; I don't expect I'll get to see you off tomorrow... So. Um."

Sherlock rises from his seat on the bed for the first time, slowly and stiffly unfolding to his full height to stand before his protector. "So, Lestrade. This is goodbye."

"Isn't," Greg chokes out at once, "it _isn't_."

 _Even if you never see me again, I'll be watching out for you,_ he thinks, keeping his hands resolutely clenched at his sides. _I promise._

He watches with already blurring eyes as Sherlock shifts very slightly towards him; it's strange, hesitant, just an aborted outward hitch of his shoulders. It's a signal that Sherlock clearly isn't used to sending, and it takes Greg a second to understand—but when he does, the lunge forward into the hug draws a low growl of emotion from him.

It's only the second time he's ever allowed himself to do this. And, like the first time, it's almost overwhelming.

 

.

 

Greg's grateful that his forethought has given him the next day off work; he's absolutely certain he won't be fit for service until he has the call from John that the plane is off safely. The appointed hour finds him in the pub, staring up at a rerun match playing on the telly behind the bar. His eyes dutifully follow the football, the players dodging and feinting in quick loops on the field...but his mind is running in its own merciless circles.

Looking back on the previous afternoon, replaying the memory of his visit to the secret cell, he feels afraid all over again. It's a bitter taste in his throat, a restless twitching in his fingers. He'd never _intended_ to reveal himself to Sherlock; despite Baba's advice, and Molly's acceptance, the very idea of it had chilled his blood. But in the moment, with emotions running high, it had suddenly seemed the right thing after all—and he knows, on reflection, that if he'd been met with outright disbelief he'd have recanted his statement immediately, and played it off as a sentimental exaggeration.

Perhaps he _had_ been able to get through to Sherlock; perhaps that hurried, hushed exchange had been enough to at least open his mind to the possibility. Maybe it might even give him hope, through whatever hardships he'll face in the months ahead.

Still, Greg knows in his heart that Sherlock doesn't believe, not yet. How can he? Nothing in the scientist's life has prepared him for this. Something so illogical, so fantastical, so utterly outside the bounds of his perceived reality...it wouldn't surprise Greg in the least if Sherlock had already rejected the concept entirely, within hours or even minutes of Greg's departure.

 _When he comes back...if he comes back,_ Greg corrects himself with a grimace that the barkeep seems to think directed at her, _I'll have a job of work explaining myself, won't I?_

In that cell, made raw and unstable by his days of forced isolation, Sherlock hadn't been able to keep his usual control over his reactions. Greg can see them all again, now, as he drinks.

Sherlock's cheek flippancy at his own awful predicament, barely covering a hopeless fatalism.

The sadness behind his desperate plea— _don't tell John_.

The flicker of pitying disdain that had seemed to cross his face, after Greg had implied the nature of his duty. _So this is why you're always afraid. Lestrade, the dishonest and isolated, the perpetually fearful._

The wide-eyed shock and reflexive fear, at realising that his unexpected visitor knew things he _shouldn't be able to know_.

No, it would be no surprise if Sherlock were to dismiss Greg's confession out of hand, as the insupportable raving of an unstable and paranoid man. And even if he _doesn't_ , that's no guarantee that Greg hasn't made a terrible, terrible mistake.

Now that Sherlock knows what little he does...and now that Greg's as much as promised to protect him, to bring him through this supposed suicide mission unscathed... _what if the gift fails?_

What if the fact of Sherlock's _knowing_ —even just this little bit, without the benefit of explanation or final acceptance—invalidates the power of the ripples?

_What if that really was the last time I'll ever see him alive?_

The thought overturns something within him. He covers for his visible flinch, instinctively, by echoing the other patrons' loud upset: there's another missed goal, and an increasingly staticky screen.

When the match fuzzes out entirely, though, it becomes clear that there's even more to be worried about than Greg had thought. The image that rises through the static, though its artificial voice comes through the mouth of a jerky marionette, is the familiar face of his nightmares—the deranged, smouldering eyes of Jim Moriarty, staring out at him in smug challenge.

" _Did you miss me_?" The robotic voice isn't quite as terrifying as the real thing, but it's not far off. " _Did you miss me_?"

An eloquent series of curses spools through Greg's mind in rapid succession; he gapes at the television as the unnerving chatter continues, the single phrase repeated over and over in maniacal fashion. Around him, the rest of the pub is erupting into confused shouts and an uncertain rush for the doors—but Greg can't move, can't look away, can't _think_.

There's air, but he may as well be drowning; whatever happens next, it's bound to be nothing good.

 

\-----

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there you have it! I hope you've enjoyed the ride!  
> Last chapter will be the cover art, as usual. :)  
> Clearly, this story isn't over...I expect to bring you more Dark Ripples, sometime in 2017 (fingers crossed)!
> 
> Thank you, again, to all of you who have made my work a joy...for a full list, see my [Tumblr](http://vividstitch.tumblr.com/search/fic%3A+pulled+under).  
> And if you have been reading, and _especially_ if you've been commenting, please do consider yourself part of that list - I'm endlessly grateful!  
>  <3 <3 <3  
> M.


	24. (Cover Art)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cover art I've been using for this story. <3

  
Sigh...this may possibly no longer be visible, as I had these images hosted on LiveJournal. Since deleting the extraneous chapter will also delete lovely comments that I like to come and smile at, I'm leaving this. If, eventually, I figure out a different way to host the images, this chapter will be updated. Sorry!

  



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